Mother's Day Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Happy Mother’s Day

April 27, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Mother’s Day is almost here.

I’m already lactating.

Why?

Because I’m having a mommy-type moment that I wanted to share with you. Not only because it’s a cool thing that’s happening to me, but because it’s a little reminder that wonderful things can happen in a woman’s lifetime.

We begin way back when Daughter Francesca was born, and I quit my job as a lawyer because I really enjoyed being home with her. Lawyering didn’t work for me part time, and the months after her birth made me realize that raising her was simply the most important, and fun, thing I could do.

This all sounds great until you realize I was getting divorced and had zero money. So I decided to be a writer, and then followed five years living on credit cards while writing and getting rejected.

But meanwhile I got to stay home with Francesca, and I remember those early days so well, because the lack of money was beside the point. I was doing something I loved, being with this curly-haired, blue-eyed, baby, and watching her grow.

I remember after I’d put her down at night, she’d be in her crib, talking away.

I would stand outside her bedroom, listening, but I couldn’t make out any of the words. She was just yakking up a storm, in an extremely animated way.

This would last for hours.

So one day, when she was about four years old, I asked her, “Who are you talking to in your room at night?”

And she answered, “I’m telling myself my stories.”

Fast-forward a couple of decades later, when she actually becomes an author, and this summer, something remarkable is happening. Namely, my storyteller daughter has a novel coming out in August, entitled Full Bloom.

Plus I have a novel coming out in July, entitled The Unraveling of Julia.

This is a harmonic convergence for our tiny two-person family.

This summer, mother and daughter will be blooming and unraveling together.

You can pre-order our books now, and we’d be delighted if you would!

We’re even doing events together, and I can only imagine how proud my mother would be. She would curse with happiness, her highest form of self-expression.

For what it’s worth, I never pushed Francesca to be an author.

I pushed her to become a veterinarian.

I need a vet very badly.

Nor do I take any credit for her becoming an author, because the best storyteller in our family was Mother Mary. She could turn anything into a story, and she knew to keep it short, punchy and funny, just like her.

The day of her funeral, there was such a heavy rainstorm that my entrance hall flooded for the first and the last time ever. Francesca was sure it was a sign from her, and I agree.

Somehow, I know that my mother will show up at one of our signings this summer, heckle us, and/or do something vaguely obscene.

I can’t wait.

It reminds me of the saying that everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright yet, then it’s not the end.

Well, this might be the end because everything’s alright.

And this author’s getting her own happy ending.

Thanks, Mom.

And thanks, Francesca

Happy Mother’s Day!

Column Classic: One Down

January 3, 2025November 10, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Mother Mary never forgets anything. Take the Case of the Crossword Puzzle Cookie Jar.

Our story begins when I see an ad for a cookie jar in the newspaper. It’s a square white jar with a real crossword puzzle on each of the four sides, and it has a special pen that you use to fill in the blanks. Plus it comes with heart-shaped cookies that I don’t have to bake myself.

Mother Mary loves crossword puzzles, though she doesn’t much care for cookies, regardless of shape. Bottom line, the crossword-puzzle cookie jar struck me as a great gift for Mother’s Day. At the time I saw the ad, it was a month in advance of the holiday, so I ordered it online, charged it to my credit card, and specified that it be sent to her. Then I ordered her flowers like I always do and figured I had Mother’s Day squared away.

But when I called her for Mother Mary’s Day, she’d gotten the flowers but not the crossword-puzzle cookie jar. It never came. She was happy with her flowers and didn’t mind not getting the jar. She told me to make sure I wasn’t charged for it. I wasn’t worried. I assumed they hadn’t charged me, because something had clearly gone wrong. The next week, she called me.

She said, “I saw an ad for that cookie jar, and that thing cost a hundred bucks.”

“I know.”

“That’s too much to spend on me.”

“No, it’s not,” I say, because I’m such a sport. I’m the kind of daughter who promises her mother gifts that never arrive. And cookies that other people bake.

“Did you check and see if they charged you?”

“The statement didn’t come in yet, but I will.”

“Make sure you do. Mark my words.”

Then, every time I call to say hi, the first thing she asks is:

“Did you make sure they didn’t charge you for that cockamamie cookie jar?”

“Not yet. Don’t you want it? I can call and ask them to send you another one.”

“No, I don’t want it. It costs too much. I just want to make sure they don’t charge you.”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know? Don’t be a patsy.”

I smile. Patsy is a great word. More people should use it. “Okay, I’ll check.”

I hang up, vowing to check my credit statement when it comes in. The next week, she calls me.

“I slept terrible last night,” she says.

“Why?”

“This thing with that cookie jar. It’s keeping me up.”

“Why?”

“It’s a scam.”

I blink. “What?”

“Lots of people like crossword puzzles, right?”

“Right.”

“And lots of people like cookies.”

“Except you.”

“Right. So. The company says they’ll send the cookie jars, but they don’t, and nobody checks to see if they got charged, and the next thing you know, they’re off on a cruise.”

“Financed by cookie jars?”

“You got it!”

I hang up, this time vowing I will never order her anything from the newspaper, or anywhere else. Every gift I will buy and carry to her, or else she’ll have a heart attack for Mother’s Day.

But last week the statement finally came in, and I checked it.

You know what?

They charged me.

But I’m not telling.

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