“All the time,” she said. “Why don’t you come stay with us for the week while Jason’s away? Please. It would mean so much to Lily and Noah.”
I pressed a hand flat against my chest, right over the place where the ache usually lived. “Oh, Melissa. I would love that. Nothing would make me happier.”
If I had known then what I was agreeing to, I would have laughed at myself. Instead I just felt grateful.
“Wonderful,” she said. “It’s settled. You’ll come.”
There was a note in her voice I couldn’t quite place — a sweetness pulled a little too tight, rehearsed rather than felt. I noticed it and let it go in the same breath. She’s happy, I told myself. That’s all this is.
“I’ll pack tonight,” I said. “I’ve made jam. And I have gifts for the children.”
“They’ll love that. See you soon.”
The call ended before I could say goodbye, but I barely registered it. I was already crossing the hall to dig out my old suitcase.
That night I folded my cardigans with more care than the trip probably called for, and wrapped two small gifts in tissue paper — a wooden puzzle for Noah, a book of fairy tales for Lily. I tucked the jam jars between my sweaters so the glass wouldn’t knock together on the drive.
Then I sat on the edge of my bed and let myself feel the thing I usually kept folded away, same as the cardigans.
Since my husband died, I had drifted to the edges of this family without ever quite deciding to. Holidays where I took the chair in the corner. Phone calls that got shorter every month, the way a hem gets shorter each time it’s taken up. A slow, quiet dread that I had turned into something to be managed rather than someone to be wanted.
“I won’t be a burden,” I said to the empty room. “I’ll help. I’ll make myself useful.”
Maybe that was the real reason the invitation felt like something sent down from heaven. Somebody needed me. Somebody wanted me under their roof again.
I had no idea yet what “useful” was going to cost me.
