142/365 01/10/2026

Our mother was not an architect, designer, nor decorator. She wasn’t an accomplished cook, nor did she seem to enjoy anything to do with it: shopping, prepping, cleaning, doing dishes. She liked food well enough, enjoyed very much going out to eat. But her own meals, which we ate at our dining table most nights, always seemed like some kind of march. It was surprising then, when she announced one day she had hired contractors to manifest her vision: a new, bigger kitchen. Island, Tile floors. Space and purpose. She would conceive it. Design it. Oversee its construction. We could see, then, the glint of promise in her eyes, and none of us could conceive the wreckage a new kitchen would befall us.