Chapter 2: Family Secrets and Public Shame

I’ve wanted to take my eighty-year-old mother to Washington, D.C. for two years now.

Every time I watched the news and saw the Capitol steps or those grand cherry blossoms, the idea tugged at me. It felt important—like one last adventure before time slipped away. I’d google ‘things to do in D.C. with seniors’ after dinner, my computer balanced on my knees as the dishwasher hummed.

I’m obsessed with this idea, and it all started with a photo hanging in my mother’s living room—a fake Capitol backdrop, as phony as can be.

It was one of those portraits printed at the county fair, the kind where you can see the seams in the backdrop if you look close enough. She’d put it right next to the old school photo of my sisters and me, the gold plastic frame faded with time.

It was one of those staged photos taken for the elderly in our small town, twenty bucks for a framed print.

You could spot the corner of the backdrop where it folded a little funny, the edges curling away from the wall. My mother never seemed to mind—she’d smile at it like it was the real thing.

The first time I saw it, I couldn’t help but say, "Mom, this background is way too fake."

I’d laughed, a little too loud, standing in her kitchen with a mug of Folgers. But her face had softened, eyes bright behind her reading glasses.

But my mother’s eyes were full of longing. "What do you know? This is the Capitol. I’ll never have a chance to go there in my life—having a photo is already a blessing."

She said it with a kind of quiet pride, fingers tracing the edge of the frame. I could see the memories flicker behind her eyes—decades of sacrifice, of putting everyone else first.

Why wouldn’t she have a chance?

The thought gnawed at me for weeks afterward. What was really stopping us? I couldn’t shake the guilt, imagining her settling for a cardboard backdrop.

I retorted carelessly at the time, but after I calmed down, I realized it really was difficult to take my mother to D.C.

It wasn’t just the money—it was the logistics, the health worries, wrangling everyone’s schedule. Taking her to the Capitol seemed as far away as taking her to the moon.

My mother has four daughters.

We grew up in a little house with faded blue shutters, and each of us took a different path out into the world. Our family group chat is full of emojis, chain messages, and once in a while, a real crisis.

The eldest has worked the farm her whole life. She can read, but she’s never left home. Her kids haven’t amounted to much. Other than bringing groceries to our mother every day, she can’t be relied on for anything else.

Linda still lives two doors down from Mom. She’ll haul over fresh corn or eggs, and sometimes the tomatoes are bruised, but she means well. She keeps her world small—her circle tight as a button.

The second sister is well-off, but she moved to Canada early on with her kids. Other than sending money every month, she’s never shown her face.

Marsha sends us texts with maple leaves and snowflakes, her kids say ‘eh’ at the end of sentences. She Venmos for birthdays, but Thanksgiving is always just a phone call.

The third sister has trouble walking and needs her own children to take care of her.

Denise’s house is a patchwork of medical bills and pill bottles. Her kids shuttle her to doctor’s appointments, and she apologizes more than she should for needing help.

As for me, I spent two years paving the way for this trip.

I’m the youngest, the one everyone expects to step in, to patch things up and fill in the cracks. This trip was my way of saying ‘thank you’—for everything my mother gave up.

It was hard enough to finally catch a break when my daughter-in-law said she just wanted to relax at home during Memorial Day. I jumped at the chance to discuss the trip with them.

I’d tiptoed around it for months, but when Jessica mentioned staying home, I saw my opening. My hands trembled a little as I broached the subject over dinner, picking at my salad while Mason played with his trucks under the table.

At first, they wouldn’t agree either. I insisted, "Your grandma is eighty, and only getting older. Who knows if she’ll be able to travel in the future? I want to fulfill her wish while she’s still healthy."

I poured my heart out at the kitchen table, voice soft but determined. I talked about all the things my mother had missed, about her quiet dreams and sacrifices. Mason piped up, wanting to see the ‘big white building’ too, which almost made Jessica crack a smile.

Only after I promised to transfer all my property to my son and daughter-in-law when I got back did they finally give in.

It felt like a negotiation on a reality TV show. My son looked at Jessica, eyebrows raised, as if to say, ‘Are we really doing this?’ When I brought up the property, I could almost hear the calculator whirring in their heads.

Honestly, I’d wanted to give them those properties for a long time, but never found the right moment.

I’d drafted the will years ago—folded in the back of my closet. Part of me worried about letting go, but another part hoped it would give them some peace of mind.

Next, I had to persuade my mother. She worried about her tomatoes and beans at home, and fretted over the chickens.

She made a list of chores for Linda, even called her twice to remind her about the garden hose. Her hands fluttered with nervous energy, counting and recounting her seeds for the season.

I knew, deep down, she was afraid of being a burden, afraid her children would resent her for being fussy.

She’d lived her whole life keeping her needs small, hiding her aches. The idea of being an ‘inconvenience’ terrified her more than flying.

I coaxed her, saying the plane tickets and hotel were booked by my daughter-in-law, and that my son’s company was sponsoring the trip as a family appreciation project. Only then did my mother smile and agree.

I even printed out a fake itinerary with my son’s company logo, just to make her feel less guilty. When she finally grinned, her eyes crinkled the same way they used to when I brought home straight A’s.

Finally, I planned the itinerary and booked the hotel, plane tickets, and tickets to the sights.

I had a color-coded folder—reservations, maps, a stash of Band-Aids. My own version of a battle plan, ready for anything.

Just to book the tickets for the Capitol tour, I spent four days refreshing the website. Fortunately, everything was ready.

I set alarms at midnight, checked for cancellations, even called the visitor’s center twice. When I finally snagged the tickets, I let out a victory whoop loud enough to scare the cat.

Thinking about my mother’s excitement at her first time on a plane, I couldn’t help but laugh.

I could already picture her clutching the armrests, peering out the window at the clouds, face shining like a kid at a state fair.

Who knew that just as I was packing, my daughter-in-law would try to stop me from going to D.C. again.

Every plan I’d made felt suddenly fragile—like a house of cards with the fan turned on. My hands hovered over the suitcase, unsure if I should keep going or start unpacking.