I had confused usefulness with belonging.
And my children, loving me imperfectly as children often love their parents, had accepted the arrangement because I had accepted it too.
What happened that morning had hurt.
It still did when I remembered it.
But I no longer wanted to erase the memory.
It had opened a door.
Behind that door had been Robert’s letter.
Behind the letter, choices.
Behind the choices, a life.
Brenda stepped onto the porch carrying two cups of tea.
She held one up.
“Want this?”
“Yes.”
She handed it to me.
Then she sat.
After a moment she asked, “Are you happy we kept the house?”
I looked toward the yard.
“I’m happy I got to choose.”
She nodded.
“That’s not exactly the same thing.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“I think I understand.”
I sipped my tea.
A breeze moved through the hydrangeas.
From upstairs came the muffled sound of Cooper and Paisley arguing over who had stolen whose pillow.
