“Of course.”
I sat down.
She pushed a cup toward me.
“Ordered for you.”
“Thank you.”
She studied me.
“What?”
“You look happy.”
I frowned.
“I am often happy.”
“No. You are often satisfied. Sometimes pleased. Occasionally smug.”
“I reject this classification system.”
She laughed.
I looked through the window.
People hurried along the sidewalk.
Someone walked a dog.
A delivery truck blocked half the street.
Nothing remarkable was happening.
And yet she was right.
I was happy.
Not because I had solved every problem.
Not because I had recovered the years we lost.
Not because grief had disappeared.
I was happy because nothing needed fixing in that moment.
My sister was across the table.
My father’s watch was ticking on my wrist.
My mother’s voice still lived in recordings I sometimes played when I missed her.
And for once, I was not thinking about what money could buy next.
