“Maybe You Should Skip Dessert”

“Maybe you should skip dessert.”

The woman at the next table said it loudly enough for my mother to hear.

Mom’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

A small piece of tiramisu rested on it. A few seconds earlier, she had been laughing about something my father used to do. Now she slowly lowered the fork and placed it beside the half-finished dessert.

Then she reached for her purse.

“Daphne, I think I’m ready to go.”

That was the part that made me angry.

Not because I wanted a confrontation.

Because I had seen my mother make that exact movement too many times.

Someone stared. Someone whispered. Someone made a joke about her weight or offered advice nobody had asked for.

And Molly Bennett disappeared.

Not physically.

She just became quieter.

Smaller.

Ready to leave.

I looked at the woman.

She was sitting with a man who suddenly seemed fascinated by his dinner.

“Were you speaking to my mother?”

Mom touched my wrist.

“Daphne. Please.”

The woman calmly lifted her wineglass.

“I was only making an observation.”

“About a stranger’s dessert?”

She shrugged.

“Sometimes people need to hear the truth.”

Mom pulled her purse onto her lap.

I pushed my chair back.

“You don’t know anything about her.”

The woman sighed as though I were the unreasonable one.

“I wasn’t trying to be rude. I’m talking about health.”

Mom stood.

“Let’s just go.”

I looked down at the tiramisu.

It had been the happiest part of her birthday.

And now she couldn’t even look at it.

Three Hours Earlier

Mom turned sixty-five that day.

When I was growing up, she loved restaurants.

My father used to joke that Mom could turn an ordinary Wednesday into an event if somebody gave her a menu.

She loved trying new places. She remembered waiters’ names. She ordered things she couldn’t pronounce and convinced everyone else to taste them.

That changed gradually.

After Dad died, she still went out with me occasionally. Then the excuses started.

Parking was difficult.

Restaurants were too noisy.

Her knee hurt.

She wasn’t hungry.

She had something to do at home.

For a while, I believed her.

Then I started noticing what happened whenever strangers looked at her.

Once, two women behind us at a coffee shop whispered about her size. One of them laughed.

Mom stepped out of line.

“I don’t want coffee anymore.”

Another time, someone made a comment in a department store.

There had been other incidents too.

Mom rarely confronted anyone.

She simply stopped going places.

So when I asked what she wanted for her sixty-fifth birthday, I already knew what she would say.

“We can order takeout.”

“No.”

She laughed.

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I’m taking you to Bellini’s.”

Her smile faded slightly.

Bellini’s was an Italian restaurant she and Dad used to love.

“I haven’t been there in years.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s probably changed.”

“Then we’ll find out.”

She tried three more excuses before finally agreeing.

When I arrived at her house that evening, she had changed clothes twice.

She eventually chose a soft blue blouse and dark pants. Then she opened her jewelry box and took out an old silver necklace Dad had given her.

After fastening it, she looked at herself in the mirror.

“Is this too much?”

“No. You look beautiful.”

She reached for a cardigan.

I knew why.

It was something she could wrap around herself.

She stood there for a moment, then surprised me by putting it back.

We left without it.

Dessert Came First

Bellini’s still had the dark wooden booths, white tablecloths and brick wall covered with old photographs.

Mom stopped inside the entrance.

I thought she might change her mind.

Then the hostess smiled.

“Table for two?”

Mom nodded.

We were seated near the photograph wall.

Within ten minutes, she was telling stories about Dad.

When our server mentioned dessert, Mom looked at the menu.

“I want the tiramisu.”

The server smiled.

“After dinner?”

Mom shook her head.

“Before.”

I stared at her.

She grinned.

“I’m sixty-five. I can have dessert first.”

The server laughed.

“I like that rule.”

When the tiramisu arrived, Mom took one bite and closed her eyes.

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Worth leaving the house?”

She pointed her fork at me.

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

For the next hour, I watched the version of my mother I had been missing.

She laughed loudly.

She told me about her neighbor.

She showed me pictures of flowers she wanted to plant.

At one point, another couple looked toward us when Mom laughed.

Her smile faltered.

Then the man smiled at her.

Mom smiled back.

A few minutes later, she leaned across the table.

“You know, maybe I should start doing this again.”

“Ordering dessert first?”

She shook her head.

“Going out.”

I stopped joking.

“I’d like that.”

She nodded.

That was when I noticed the woman at the next table watching her.

One Comment Was Enough

At first, I ignored it.

The woman glanced at Mom several times.

When our entrées arrived, she looked directly at Mom’s plate.

Mom didn’t seem to notice.

Then our server asked if we wanted the remaining tiramisu boxed.

Mom looked down.

“No, I’m going to finish it.”

And the woman spoke.

“Maybe you should skip dessert.”

Everything that had changed in Mom over the previous hour disappeared.

Her shoulders lowered.

Her smile vanished.

She reached for her purse.

I stood.

“You don’t know her.”

The woman put down her glass.

“I don’t have to know someone to see what’s obvious.”

The man with her finally murmured:

“Karen, stop.”

She ignored him.

“People are too sensitive. I’m not insulting anyone.”

“You’re commenting on my mother’s body while she’s trying to eat her birthday dinner.”

Mom stood beside me.

“Daphne, please. It doesn’t matter.”

But it did.

Five minutes earlier, Mom had told me she wanted to start going out again.

Now she wanted to escape.

The woman leaned back.

“I’m only saying health matters.”

“Are you her doctor?”

She frowned.

“Obviously not.”

“Then you don’t know her health.”

Several nearby tables had gone quiet.

Mom hated attention. I could feel her hand against my arm, asking me without words to sit down.

Then the woman looked at the tiramisu.

“I’m just saying moderation wouldn’t hurt.”

“Enough.”

The voice came from behind me.

A man in a white chef’s coat was walking toward us.

He was around Mom’s age, with gray hair, glasses and his sleeves rolled to his forearms.

He stopped beside the woman’s table.

“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

Her face changed.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re disturbing another guest.”

“I made one comment.”

“And then you kept going.”

“I was expressing concern.”