“Hi, Mom!”

From where she was sitting on a gardener’s stool, Mrs. Worth asked: “Are you bringing a Mother’s Day card, or the Safety Inspector?”

“Mom!” Rena sounded offended. “A card, of course, but we need to talk about the house.”

“Nothing to talk about, dear. Why didn’t you bring the children?”

“Because – Mom – they can’t get into the house! You have to let us clean it up.”

Mrs. Worth continued to tend to her flower garden, as if she had not heard her daughter. “Your father liked bluets,” she said softly.

“Yes. But you know what he didn’t like? Hoarding.”

“Look at these specks of blue… so many of them!”

Rena sighed, frustrated. It was hard to have a conversation with her mother.

“Just because there’s a lot of something,” Mrs. Worth continued, “doesn’t mean it’s hoarding.”

“Mom, there is no space in the house. It’s full of junk. Throw away the bills, donate Dad’s clothes, cancel his magazines, get rid of stuff!”

Mrs. Worth stood up. “That’s not junk, it’s my life. Your father and I were together for 55 years. How could I throw his things away?” She wiped at tears with her gardening glove, leaving a muddy streak on her wrinkled cheek. “Should I throw my life away?”

Rena felt her own eyes well up. “No, Mom… But you need… ” She didn’t know what her mother needed.

“See the bluet?” Mrs. Worth asked. “It just needs a drop of water, some shade and a bit of love. It’s tiny, but it’s got good roots. It will survive year after year.” She pulled her gloves off and grabbed her daughter’s hand. “Just like me.”

Rena stood quietly. She had come determined to start cleaning the house, even if she had to involve the authorities, or a psychologist. But she sensed there was another, gentler path, although she could not see it clearly yet. They held hands, looking at the pretty blooms.

“Did Dad really like the bluet?” Rena whispered.

Her mother smiled, “He loved it. It was his favorite.”

Learn more about the author:

Dalia Grigorescu