A yellow legal pad sat in front of her, covered with notes written in her perfect penmanship, and as I came in, she hung up the phone and made another note. “You haven’t brushed your hair,” she said, looking up at me. “That was an actual life choice.” I’d woken up with it looking not half bad, and I’d been afraid to touch it. Of course it had gone into its natural curl, which my mother regarded as a failing on the same level of magnitude as, say, becoming a heroin addict, but I couldn’t do anything about that. My mother glanced back at me, looking as though she had stepped in something. I lifted my voice and changed the subject. “So what are you working on?” I asked, too loudly. “Don’t shout, I’m right here. I’ve been calling some appraisers.” “Doesn’t Sharon do that?” “Not for the house, for the contents. I know you think everything in here is ancient and worthless, but much of it is quite valuable.”
