My Sister Promised My Grandmother’s China to My Niece—Then Asked Why I Needed to Keep It at All
PART 4
Sophie asked Erin to meet for coffee the following Tuesday.
Erin suggested the bakery near Bellamy Plumbing Supply because it was halfway between Sophie’s office and Erin’s, and because Erin knew the owner would not play soft jazz loud enough to make conversation feel confidential.
Sophie arrived first.
She had her wedding binder on the chair beside her and a cup of coffee she had apparently forgotten to drink.
“Before we start,” she said, “I told Mom I was meeting you.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No. I’m trying a new thing where everybody knows who I’m talking to.”
Erin smiled despite herself.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Sophie pushed a paper napkin flat with one finger.
“I want you to know I don’t expect the china.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t expect anything else.”
Erin looked at her.
Sophie winced.
“Okay. That sounded worse than I meant.”
“What else?”
“That’s why I wanted to talk.”
Erin did not reach for a notebook. She did not ask Sophie to make a list. She waited.
Sophie looked toward the pastry case.
“When Grace and I were kids, Mom used to say things like, ‘That little desk will probably be Grace’s someday,’ or ‘Sophie will get Grandma’s blue dishes because she likes to host.’ I thought she was joking.”
“What little desk?”
“The walnut one in your guest room.”
Erin stared.
“That was Mom’s.”
“I know.”
“My mother gave it to me.”
“I know now.”
“What else?”
Sophie covered her eyes with one hand.
“I knew this would happen.”
“You brought me here.”
“I made a terrible choice.”
Erin leaned back.
“Take your time.”
Sophie lowered her hand.
“The brass candlesticks. The cedar chest. Maybe the quilt with the red squares?”
“That quilt is on my bed.”
“I know.”
“You have seen it on my bed.”
“Yes.”
“And your mother assigned it?”
“She didn’t exactly assign it.”
“What did she do exactly?”
“She’d say things. Like when we were helping you paint the guest room and Grace said she liked the desk, Mom said, ‘Be nice to Aunt Erin; you’re going to inherit half this place.’”
Erin remembered the day.
Grace had been sixteen and covered in green paint. Erin had thrown a rag at Diane and said, “Only if she finishes the trim.”
Everyone laughed.
At the time it had felt harmless.
Maybe it had been harmless then.
That was one of the irritating things about patterns. They were easy to see backward.
Sophie continued.
“At Christmas last year, Mom told me I should ask you how Grandma polished the candlesticks because I’d need to know eventually.”
“She said that in front of me?”
“No. In the car.”
Erin’s coffee had gone cold.
“Why didn’t you ever ask me?”
“Because I felt weird.”
“Good instinct.”
Sophie smiled faintly.
“Grace feels even weirder. She says she wants none of it because she does not have enough closets.”
“That sounds like Grace.”
“She also says if you ever give her the desk she’s painting it orange.”
Erin laughed.
Her younger niece had always regarded sentimentality as a challenge to improve something with spray paint.
Sophie’s expression softened.
“Mom isn’t trying to be awful.”
“I know.”
“She’s scared things disappear.”
“I know that too.”
After their mother died seven years earlier, Diane had labeled every family photograph within a month. Names, approximate dates, locations. She scanned recipe cards. She kept their father’s Army discharge paper in an acid-free sleeve and sent copies to both daughters even though nobody had asked.
Diane did not hoard objects because she wanted more objects.
She preserved things because loss made her frantic.
Knowing that did not make Erin’s house a warehouse.
“Did Grandma ever tell you the dishes were supposed to go to me?” Sophie asked.
“No.”
“Did she say anything about keeping them in the family?”
“She told me not to let Diane build them a shrine.”
Sophie laughed into her coffee.
“That sounds like her.”
“It does.”
“What are you going to do?”
“With the china?”
“With Mom.”
Erin considered the question.
“I already told her the dishes are mine.”
“That will not stop her from thinking.”
“I have no jurisdiction over her thoughts.”
“Lucky you.”
Sophie looked relieved, and that bothered Erin.
“How often do you have to manage her feelings about this wedding?”
Sophie groaned.
“Do we have another hour?”
They talked about seating charts, a florist who had changed the shade of pink without telling anyone, and Sophie’s fiancé Ben, who believed twelve people could fit comfortably at any table if everybody liked each other.
For fifteen minutes they did not talk about Erin’s possessions at all.
It was the most useful part of the conversation.
When they stood to leave, Sophie touched Erin’s sleeve.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“I really do remember that covered dish.”
“The ugly knob.”
“It is not ugly.”
“It is a ceramic rosebud the size of a walnut.”
“Grandma put green beans in it at Christmas.”
“She put everything in it because the lid fit.”
“I used to sit next to you and steal the crispy onions off the top.”
“You were a thief. That part is documented.”
Sophie smiled.
“I would like something of hers someday. From you. If you ever want that.”
The phrasing mattered.
Erin heard the difference immediately.
“If I ever want that,” she repeated.
Sophie nodded.
“Yes.”
Erin hugged her in the parking lot.
On the drive back to work, she thought about the covered vegetable dish and felt something she had not expected.
Not pressure.
Possibility.
