Page 34 of Till The Cows Come Home
“I’m sorry,” whispered Sage, her shoulders drooping slightly in defeat.
“These pants were one stain away from heading to the barn anyway,” I joked.
A few moments later Gale resurfaced, yielding a pair of sweatpants that I knew wouldn’t fit. Although Stu was a burly man, he was about half a foot shorter than me.
“Thank you,” I said, excusing myself to the bathroom to change, and after donning the pants, my suspicions were confirmed. They were too short.
The last thing I was going to do was act ungrateful, so I walked out of the bathroom strutting my new sweatpant capris, and to my surprise Sage was there waiting for me.
“Oh. My. God. This is amazing.” She giggled.
“Hush. It was this or seem like a snob to your mother.”
“Both were acceptable options, but I enjoy this much better. Ready to hammer out some dishes, or did you need more time to prepare for the flood?”
I placed my hand on her back, propelling her forward.
“Let's go, smartass.”
As we arrived in the kitchen, Gale was placing the last of the leftovers in the fridge.
“Are you sure you kids don’t want me to help with those?”
“We got it, mom. Go relax with dad.”
“Okay, okay, I’m going.”
Gale left us to it and as soon as she was no longer in the room, I watched a mountain of tension dissolve from Sage’s shoulders. With a newfound relaxation, she handed me a towel, washing each dish before handing it to me to dry.
“What’s going on with you two?”
“Who?” she asked, but I could tell she knew exactly who I was inferring.
She held out her hand, passing me a bowl and when I refused to take it, she narrowed her eyes at my persistence.
“What, you’ve never met a girl with mommy issues?”
“Not one that I couldn’t understand.”
“She took away my dreams. What else is there to understand?”
I took the bowl from her hand and began drying, and after a few moments, I looked at her again.
“She did it because she loves you.”
Sage stopped washing, meeting my gaze.
“Often people do horrible things and claim it as love.”
“Sometimes we make decisions to protect those we love and they get hurt anyway. That doesn’t mean we don’t love them,” I said, pushing a hair that had fallen from behind her ear.
“How do I get over it?”
“You don’t, pretty girl, you get through it. If that means I escort you to every Wednesday dinner wearing these awful sweatpants, so be it.”
“You’re a smooth talker, you know that.”
“I’ve been told that once or twice.” I chuckled, resuming my duty as designated dryer.
