Whenever she visited, she brought her two daughters, Sarah and Kate, plus six grandchildren who seemed to multiply the second they crossed the threshold. They arrived like a traveling carnival of noise, demands, sticky fingers, and empty hands.
A few weeks before the Fourth, she called to announce their Memorial Day visit as if she were doing me a favor.
“Annie, darling, we’re coming for Memorial Day,” she said brightly. “The kids just love your ribs.”
Of course they loved them. I bought the ribs. I marinated them. I cooked them. I served them. Then Juliette sat in my patio chair and told me what I had done wrong.
That Memorial Day had been another exhausting performance.
Juliette walked in and immediately started rearranging my living room like she had been hired to redesign the place.
“This couch would look much better facing the window,” she said, already shoving it across the floor.
“I actually like it where it is,” I replied.
“Nonsense, dear. I have a good eye for these things.”
