Chapter 6 - The Unscheduled Morning
By Friday morning, the dynamic in the Mercer household had fundamentally shifted, though nobody had formally agreed to the terms.
Isaac didn't go into his downtown office. Instead, he set up his laptop at the kitchen island, much to Megan’s visible annoyance as she tried to wipe down the counters around his dual-monitor setup.
“You’re blocking the toaster,” Megan muttered, carrying a tray of sliced strawberries toward the sink.
“The toaster is fully accessible,” Isaac replied without looking up from a financial modeling spreadsheet. “And my desk is currently being refinished.”
“Your desk is solid mahogany and was finished in 1994,” Megan retorted, tossing a dish towel over her shoulder. “You’re just hovering.”
“I am supervising.”
“You’re spying.”
“Call it what you like.”
At that moment, the door from the back hallway creaked open.
Both of them stopped.
Catherine Mercer stood in the doorway. She wasn't wearing her usual floral dressing gown or slippers. She had dressed herself in a soft knit sweater and slacks, her silver hair neatly pinned back, walking with the slow, deliberate pace of someone navigating rough terrain.
She was holding onto a wooden four-legged walker—an ugly, utilitarian device that Isaac had ordered months ago and that Catherine had steadfastly refused to touch, insisting it made her look like an invalid.
Ruth was nowhere in sight.
Isaac’s hands froze over his keyboard. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to jump up, grab her elbow, and rush her back to the safety of the elevator chair.
Megan didn't move either, but her eyes locked onto Catherine’s face, watching every micro-expression.
Catherine stopped two steps inside the kitchen. She looked at Isaac, then at Megan, and finally down at her own hands gripping the foam handles of the walker.
“Good morning,” Catherine said, her voice steady.
“Mom,” Isaac began, starting to stand up.
“Sit down, Isaac,” Catherine commanded, her tone dropping into that familiar, commanding matriarchal register that had run this household for decades. “I am going to make coffee.”
Isaac froze halfway out of his chair.
Megan slowly lowered the sponge she was holding, a wide, genuine smile spreading across her face. She didn't rush forward. She didn't grab her elbows.
She simply pulled out the wooden chair by the island and patted the seat.
“The coffee pot is yours, Mrs. Mercer,” Megan said softly. “Just don't let your son near the baking powder.”
May you like
Catherine let out a dry, pleased chuckle, gripping the walker firmly and taking her first independent step across the kitchen floor.
Isaac slowly lowered himself back into his chair, watching his mother navigate the tile. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, but for the first time in six months, the knot of suffocating terror in his chest loosened just a fraction.
