My mother was never a sentimental person. She gave away her wedding china and most belongings when my sister and I helped her downsize into an apartment in 2018. However, she kept her stand mixer. She purchased it with cash in 1989 after saving her summer school teaching salary for six years. She used that appliance every Sunday morning throughout my childhood. When she moved, she drove the heavy machine to my house and left it on my counter because she knew I loved to bake. After she passed away in March of last year, that mixer became her only possession that I still used weekly. I felt a deep connection to its motor sound and used it to bake her favorite autumn apple cake from a 1974 magazine clipping. The mixer was a practical item that held all the warmth of my childhood Sundays.
My neighbor Denise moved into the house next door four years ago and presented herself as a friendly person. However, she developed a bad habit of taking things without being accountable for their condition. The borrowing began last spring during a very vulnerable time right after my mother died. Denise borrowed a ladder and returned it two weeks late without explanation. She then borrowed my pressure washer and brought it back missing a part. The pattern eventually moved into my kitchen with items that always came back slightly worse than before. She returned my crock pot with a crack in the ceramic, dented my steamer, lost the drain plug to my cooler, and stripped the handle screw on my roasting pan. Every item came back damaged without a single apology or offer to replace what she ruined. Because I dislike confrontation, I passively accepted her dismissive excuses for six months until she asked for the mixer.
I initially refused to lend her the mixer by explaining that it belonged to my late mother and held immense personal value. Denise laughed off my concern and promised she would be careful because she only needed to make one cake. I felt worn down by her persistence and reluctantly agreed against my better judgment. The following Saturday morning, I found the mixer left on my front porch like an abandoned delivery. It was covered in dried yellow cream and had been sitting out for days. I brought the machine inside and plugged it into the wall. Instead of the familiar hum I had known for thirty six years, the motor made a terrible straining sound indicating permanent damage. I walked across the lawn to knock on her door and seek a benign explanation. Denise answered with coffee in hand and casually blamed the ancient machine for quitting during her baking. She offered absolutely no apology and acted as though I had ruined her dinner party.