“It means I didn’t expect your antique appliance to fall apart during a cake.”
That was the moment I understood she wasn’t embarrassed.
She wasn’t sorry.
She didn’t even think she’d done anything wrong.
I went home.
Sophie was waiting at the kitchen table.
“What did she say?”
“She thinks I should buy a new one.”
Sophie made a face.
“She broke yours.”
“I know.”
“So is she buying it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Excellent question.”
The next morning, I came up with the plan.
But first, I needed to know whether I was being unfair.
On Monday, I took the mixer to a repair shop.
The man behind the counter was named Greg and looked like he’d been repairing appliances since my mixer was new.
He turned it over.
Opened the housing.
Checked the motor.
Then asked, “What were you mixing?”
“I wasn’t.”
He looked at me.
“My neighbor borrowed it.”
“Ah.”
That one syllable somehow contained an entire opinion.
“What did she do?”
He pointed inside.
“The motor overheated. Looks like it was under heavy load and kept running after it started straining.”
“So it didn’t just die because it’s old?”
Greg laughed.
“These old machines are tanks.”
I felt oddly proud.
He continued.
“Age didn’t help, but this wasn’t normal wear. Something was too heavy, too much volume, or both. Once it started complaining, whoever was using it should’ve stopped.”
“How much?”
“To repair?”
“Yes.”
He gave me the estimate.
$347.
I texted Denise a photograph of it.
“Repair shop says the motor was damaged from overload and continued use after it started straining. Repair is $347. Please send me the money.”
She replied twenty minutes later.
“LOL absolutely not. I’m not paying $347 for a mixer from the 80s.”
Then she wrote, “You should be thanking me for finally giving you an excuse to replace it.”
I stared at the message.
Sophie read it over my shoulder.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I say a bad word?”
“No.”
“Can I think one?”
“Absolutely.”
That evening, I paid for the repair myself.
And then I printed something.
Denise’s niece was graduating the following weekend.
I knew because there had been a sign in Denise’s yard for two weeks.
She was hosting the party.
Forty people.
Maybe more.
Three days before it, she knocked.
Of course she did.
“Hey, neighbor.”
I smiled.
“Hi.”
“I need to borrow a few things.”
Naturally.
“What things?”
“The big cooler. Your slow cooker. And do you still have those two folding tables?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
