“I’ve always mailed it,” I said.
She laughed lightly. “Mom, nobody does that anymore.”
That kind of sentence slips past you if you are not watching for it. It sounds modern, efficient, gently exasperated with your old-fashioned ways. It says more about the speaker’s impatience than the thing itself. I let it go.
Then she started sorting the mail before I saw it. Not on any day I noticed, just gradually, until I realized it had been weeks since a bill had landed in my hands first. When I mentioned it, she said she had already taken care of it, that I should not have to deal with all of this right now.
That was another thing grief accomplished: it made any offer of reduced friction sound generous.
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