“Sometimes.”
Margaret considered it.
“I’m sorry.”
Claire looked surprised.
Margaret continued.
“I have been possessive of that house.”
“You raised Daniel there.”
“Yes. And buried a husband from there. And lost a little girl from there.”
Claire tightened her grip on the wheel.
Margaret looked at her.
“Maybe we were both reacting to things we didn’t understand.”
Claire nodded.
Then she laughed softly.
“That sounds annoyingly mature.”
“I can be petty if you prefer.”
“I’ve seen it.”
Margaret smiled.
It was the first easy laugh they had shared in years.
Repair came slowly.
That mattered.
Claire did not suddenly begin calling Margaret “Mom.”
Margaret did not expect her to.
Some weeks Claire wanted to talk about the past constantly.
Other weeks she avoided it.
She read every letter in the shoebox over three months.
She took photographs of the drawings.
Margaret gave her the red ribbon.
Claire kept it in a small frame.
The blue plate stayed in Margaret’s kitchen.
That surprised Daniel.
One afternoon he asked, “Why not give it to Claire?”
Margaret looked at him.
“Because she hasn’t asked.”
Later, when Claire did ask, Margaret gave it to her.
Not immediately.
She washed it first.
Dried it.
Wrapped it in a tea towel.
Claire accepted it with both hands.
“Are you sure?”
