His legs rested comfortably across his mother’s lap.
She was rubbing lotion into his bare feet.
Slow, careful circles.
Like she had done it a hundred times before.
I honestly wondered if I was hallucinating.
Nobody else looked surprised.
One of Eli’s brothers barely glanced over before returning his attention to the television.
A cousin reached for more chips.
Someone shouted at the referee.
As if a grown man having his mother massage his feet in the middle of my living room was completely ordinary.
I set the tray on the coffee table a little harder than I intended.
Several heads turned.
“What exactly is going on?”
Gladys looked up first.
Her expression was almost amused.
“I’m taking care of my son.”
I frowned.
“By rubbing his feet?”
“They’ve always bothered him after a long day.”
I looked at Eli.
He finally glanced away from the television.
“It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?”
I laughed once.
It came out sharper than I’d intended.
“I’ve been on my feet since sunrise cooking for everyone in this room.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I know.”
“And somehow your feet are the emergency?”
A few relatives shifted awkwardly.
One of his sisters quietly looked down at her drink.
Gladys continued kneading Eli’s foot as though I wasn’t standing there.
“I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.”
I stared at her.
“You’re massaging my husband’s feet in my living room.”
“Someone has to take care of my son.”
She sighed dramatically.
“Ivy, honestly.”
That tone, the one that suggested I was the unreasonable one.
“My son works hard.”
“So do I.”
She looked me up and down.
“Do you?”
The words hit harder than I expected.
She gestured toward the kitchen.
“You spent half your time running around because you didn’t prepare properly.”
A quiet chuckle came from somewhere behind the couch.
I couldn’t tell who.
My face burned.
“I prepared enough food for 14 people.”
“And yet you still couldn’t keep up.”
“I was overwhelmed.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t volunteer to host.”
“I didn’t volunteer.”
