No laminated schedule appeared.
When Diane’s knees began hurting, Ethan offered her the downstairs guest room for the night.
She looked at me first.
“Would that be all right?”
“Yes.”
That one question contained more repair than any dramatic speech could have.
The next morning, I woke early and walked into the kitchen.
My original blue mug sat beside the coffee machine.
Ethan had filled it before I came downstairs.
The Hill Country photograph caught the morning light from the foyer.
My navy robe hung upstairs in my closet.
The house was not exactly the home I had left nine months earlier.
Neither was I.
But every object was where it was because the people living there had finally learned the difference between making room for family and taking someone else’s place.
