The Lydia Cycle: A Story of Narcissism, Inheritance, and Quiet Love

Tuesday, April 15, 2025. For RB, with affection.

Lydia’s Son

Lydia wore white in September. Even when the grass went bristly and gold, even when the neighbors put away their deck furniture like creatures bracing for winter, she wore white linen trousers and a blouse that tied in a girlish bow at the neck. She greeted her son, Henry, with a kiss that did not quite land.

"My beautiful boy," she said, though he was nearly fifty and had stopped feeling beautiful decades ago.

Inside, the house smelled like dust, potpourri, and the leftover traces of a better era. The piano still had its crooked goose painting. The dog bowl—Maxwell, gone now ten years—still sat by the back door.

She poured two glasses of wine. Noon. "Tell me everything," she said, reclining like a woman expecting a portrait, not a visit.

"I called you last week," Henry said gently. "I told you about Elise’s promotion."

"Oh yes, that. Something with people. Or was it dogs? I lose track."

He smiled, the tired smile of sons who’ve already buried parts of themselves.

She continued talking, barely pausing. Therapy came up—his brother’s, not his. "I mean really, what did mothers do all day? Eat bonbons? Watch Phil Donahue?"

Henry tilted his head. "You liked Donahue."

"That was before people stopped talking to each other."

Henry stood to go. She said, "You'll call again soon?"

"Yes," he lied, or maybe not.

He walked to his car. He did not turn back. Behind the curtains, Lydia watched. Waiting.

The Things They Don’t Say

He looked older. That’s what struck Lydia first—Henry, with his father’s sloped shoulders and hesitant smile. She kissed him lightly, touched nothing.

Inside, the house was staged perfectly. Wine uncorked. Pillow fluffed. Candle lit. She sat, prepared.

"Tell me about your life," she said, expecting not a conversation but a soliloquy.

He began—something about Elise’s job. Lydia smiled. She listened, sort of. She had trouble with facts that didn’t orbit her directly. Not selfishly—structurally.

He mentioned therapy. His brother. The new gospel. “I think people talk a lot,” Henry said. “They just don’t always talk about you.”

It stung. Worse than stung. It pierced something she thought she’d buried under decades of good posture and clean linen.

“I always did what I thought was right,” she said.

When he left, she watched from the window. Wondered: how many visits left? When she died, would they speak of her at all?

Even the wrong stories would be better than silence.

What Elise Knows

Elise didn’t dislike Lydia. That would have been easy.

But she did dislike the way Henry became around her—smaller, emotionally recessed, a man half-present.

Lydia had once called Elise’s face "managerial." Elise had smiled, gone home, and cried in the shower.

Henry had carried something inside him that Elise learned to mother: a quiet ache, a hunger for maternal applause that never came. She was the witness, the buffer, the builder of their real family.

When Lydia died, Elise made the calls. She wrote the obituary.

She would be gracious at the funeral.

But when their daughter asked someday, Elise had made a promise: she would tell the truth.

“She was lovely. And hard. And very good at being the main character.”

The Coda: Lydia’s Funeral

It was warm for April. The urn was discreet. The hymns were generic.

Henry sat stiffly. Thomas, his brother, arrived late with sunglasses still on. Elise stood between them, a soft anchor.

The minister spoke: "Lydia was a vibrant presence." Which meant: She was loud. "She loved deeply." Which meant: Sometimes she hurt you just trying to reach you.

At the reception, the neighbors whispered: book clubs, glittery cards, heartbreak. The curated version.

Later, outside by the lilac bush, Thomas murmured, “She’d hate this song.”

Henry replied, “Too humble.”

They almost smiled.

Then they left. The absence was heavy, but familiar.

The Wallpaper Is Peeling

Henry woke early now. He made lists:

• Call Thomas

• Finish the wallpaper in the guest room

• Remember the poem his mother used to recite

The wallpaper was for Lydia’s imaginary visits. She never came. But he’d made the room nice anyway. Then he’d stopped midway through. It sat unfinished for a year.

That morning, he peeled it all down. Underneath, beige. His father’s color.

Elise came in. Said nothing. That was her gift. Just presence.

“Do you think I’m doing it right?” he asked.

“That’s not a question. It’s a wound.”

That night he dreamed of Lydia. The painting straight. The piano clean. She was saying something. He couldn’t hear it.

In the morning he wrote: “The mother is a mirror, but the mirror ages too.”

It wasn’t the poem. But it was close.

The House With the Mint Room

Henry’s daughter inherited the house. She and her wife almost sold it. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

The mint room, once prepared for Lydia, was now just a room. She found her father in there once, just sitting. Not asleep. Just being.

She’d asked him as a teenager: "Am I like you?"

He’d said: "I spent my twenties trying to impress someone who never noticed. Make sure you marry someone who sees you."

She had.

Now, sorting boxes, she found Lydia’s cards. "You are always my darling boy. Even when you forget how lovely you are."

She didn’t hate Lydia. But she pitied the woman who only loved through postcards and absence.

She closed the box. Lit a candle for her father. Then shut the mint room door.

She would keep the house. At least for another year.

There were still stories here.

And none of them had endings yet.

Lydia’s Letter (Never Sent)

Henry—

You won’t read this. Not because you’re cruel, but because I won’t send it.

I was not made for motherhood, not in the way your wife is. I thought being elegant was enough. I thought duty could pass for love. I thought that if I kept everything looking nice, you’d never notice what was missing.

You noticed.

I envy you. You sit in silence with your daughter and she sees you. You walk your dog and don’t need to be watched doing it. You’ve managed to be small, and real, and enough. I never could.

I hope one day, when someone tells a story about me, you’ll nod. Not kindly. Just honestly.

There are worse things than being remembered.

Your mother, Lydia

Be Well, Stay Kind, and Godspeed.