Neither of them spoke.
Margaret recognized Robert’s blocky handwriting before she read her name.
The tape came loose without tearing the paper. Inside was a folded note, written years before Daniel had a wife or children of his own.
Maggie, if I’ve made these properly, you won’t find this for ages.
Margaret pressed her lips together.
You said the house finally felt like ours when you had somewhere to hang your coat. Not when we signed the papers. Not when I fixed the roof. A hook. I could have saved myself a lot of work.
She laughed once, and it broke halfway through.
The last lines were smaller.
I hope this place always has room for whoever we love. But don’t forget that includes you. Keep your chair in the sunlight. You’re the one who notices when it comes in.
Daniel sat down on the lowest stair.
Margaret read the note again, then passed it to him.
For a while, only the children could be heard outside, debating which patch of garden belonged to a particularly determined robin.
“I forgot it included you,” Daniel said.
Margaret looked toward the bay window.
“So did I, for a while.”
He offered the note back with both hands.
“Where would you like the hooks?”
“The same place.”
He held the board against the wall while she checked its height. Then, at her instruction, he moved it a little lower so the younger child could reach the end hook without standing on tiptoe.
It was a change she wanted.
That mattered.
They ate supper with the window cracked open to the smell of damp earth. Nothing was scheduled beyond the food being ready. Ruth brought a pie. The children chose their own seats.
Daniel cleared the plates and asked whether Margaret wanted company while he washed them.
“For a little while,” she said.
After everyone left, she walked through the rooms without checking what someone else might think of where she stood.
The photographs were back. The den held books and a sewing table, not a hidden chair. On the refrigerator, a drawing showed a blue armchair beneath a large yellow sun.
Margaret placed Robert’s note beside his photograph.
Then she took her cardigan from its hook, settled by the window, and pulled the quilt over her knees.
Outside, Daniel paused at the gate with the children. They waved. She waved back, knowing they would come again, knowing she could choose when.
The house grew quiet.
