My house.
Not a mansion.
Not a judicial residence.
A warm three-bedroom home with a ridiculous yellow kitchen I had chosen because David would have hated it.
Grace was ten.
She helped me cook.
Dad arrived early.
He walked into the kitchen and found me stirring gravy.
“Can I help?”
“Set the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Grace laughed.
“Grandpa has to obey Mom.”
Dad looked solemn.
“In this jurisdiction, absolutely.”
We carried dinner to the table.
Then something happened that stopped me.
Grace pulled out my chair.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Sit.”
I looked at her.
“You cooked all day.”
I stared at the chair.
For a moment, I was back in David’s kitchen.
Seven months pregnant.
Exhausted.
Asking permission to sit.
Servants don’t sit with family.
The memory still existed.
Healing had not erased it.
It had simply stopped being the only voice in the room.
Dad noticed my face.
