I didn’t try to make out the words.
Instead, I took Tilly into the garden.
James had planted a pear tree beside the fence during our twentieth year in the house.
It had never produced particularly good fruit, but every spring its white blossoms covered the back corner of the yard.
I sat on the bench beneath it.
Tilly settled against my shoes.
For years, I’d assumed leaving the house meant leaving James behind.
Now I wondered whether I had been using his memory to postpone making decisions I needed to make.
I was still sitting there when Noah came outside.
He was eight years old, with Michael’s brown eyes and a habit of asking questions nobody expected.
“Grandma?”
“Hello, sweetheart.”
He sat beside me.
“Are we moving again?”
I looked at him.
“Your mom and dad are going to find somewhere for the three of you to live.”
He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve.
“Because Mommy was mean?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
“Your mother spoke to me in a way I won’t accept. But grown-ups sometimes have several reasons for changing where they live.”
He nodded.
Then he asked, “Is it because I spilled juice last Christmas?”
My heart ached.
“No, darling. Not at all.”
“I broke your yellow cup.”
“It was a cup.”
“Daddy said it was special.”
“It was. But you’re much more important than a cup.”
He looked relieved.
Then he glanced toward the back door.
