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“A disaster. I helped with the cleanup.”

“You’re a good wife.”

Her mother had set a good example.

“Justine wanted to serve beef Wellington, so I thought we’d do a turkey tomorrow.”

“You can’t go wrong with that,” Charlotte said.

“No, you can’t,” Olivia agreed. There’d be stuffing and plenty of gravy, too. Her mother would work with her and add her personal assortment of herbs and spices to create the distinct taste everyone loved. Although Olivia had watched carefully and taken notes, hers never turned out quite the same.

“Anything else?”

Olivia hesitated. With her mother, everything was homemade, from the dinner rolls to the desserts, of which there was always a wide variety. Pecan pie, fruitcake, rum cake, apple strudel and more.

“I bought a couple of coconut cream pies from the Pancake Palace.” Half expecting her mother to berate her for taking the easy road, Olivia held her breath.

“Oh, that’s wonderful.”

Wonderful? Olivia could hardly believe it. Her tensed shoulders sagged with relief.

“Everyone knows the Pancake Palace makes the best pies in town.”

Olivia understood how difficult it was for her mother to deal with change. It wasn’t easy for anyone, but the older people got, the harder it was. In her eighties now, Charlotte had coped with the transition from home to the assisted-living complex pretty well. She’d given up the house where she’d lived so many years of her life and surrendered much of her independence. Olivia was exceptionally proud of Charlotte and Ben. Naturally, there’d been doubts along the way, but all in all, the move had been a success.

“Anything else you’d like on the menu?” Olivia asked.

“My homemade applesauce.”

“Of course, with the sweet pickles from last summer.”

Charlotte rested her hands in her lap. “Those will be the last sweet pickles I put up,” she said and, after a short pause, resumed her knitting.

Olivia opened her mouth to reassure her mother that there’d be more pickles and more summers, then realized this was Charlotte’s way of telling her she was willing to give up that part of her life. No longer would she maintain a large garden or make applesauce and sauerkraut. The time had come to set all those endeavors aside.

A sharp pang of loss stabbed Olivia, but then she brightened. None of those activities, those special times, were really lost. With a little planning and foresight, they could continue into the next generation, and the one after that, too.

“Justine was talking about your pickle recipe a little while ago,” Olivia said, and gently patted her mother’s knee. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she decided to put up sweet pickles next summer.”

Her mother nodded approvingly. “I’ll help if she needs advice.”

“I know you will.” A shift had taken place in their family. It hadn’t been apparent at first and the irony of it was that Charlotte had recognized it before anyone else. Olivia felt a burst of joy. The recipes, the special family times, the laughter and the pleasures of being together would remain intact. Each generation would take what was produced and what was passed on by the one before, and then share it with the next. Eventually other traditions would be added, too.

“I’ll be by to pick you and Ben up at five,” she said. Reaching for her purse, Olivia stood.

“When are James and his family coming?” her mother asked as her fingers expertly wove the yarn around the needle. Socks again. Charlotte must have knit more than a hundred pairs over the years. These, no doubt, were for one of the great-grandchildren.

“James, Selina and the children will be there in plenty of time, don’t worry.” Olivia didn’t have the heart to explain that they’d arrived the night before. Charlotte had spoken to her grandson on the phone but she’d obviously forgotten.

Unfortunately, these lapses happened more and more often. Her mother could recall the recipe for sweet pickles from memory, but a brief conversation the day before completely eluded her. They’d have a more definitive answer