“Partly.”
“And the rest?”
“Sarah was frightened. She needed help. I could offer something.”
He stared at the little house he had drawn.
“You don’t regret it?”
“I regret letting her treat me that way. That’s different.”
He bowed his head, and she rested a hand on his shoulder.
“You were never a debt either,” she said.
He cried then, with the old drawing held carefully between his palms.
That evening, they put the picture in a frame.
Elena chose the kitchen wall, where she would see it while the kettle boiled. Beneath it, her son placed a small round table and three chairs.
Ruth arrived with groceries and announced that nobody was cooking anything complicated.
They made sandwiches.
Elena sliced tomatoes while seated, her son washed lettuce, and Ruth argued that a proper sandwich needed more mustard than either of them understood.
Sunlight lay across the table.
When Elena reached for the plates, her son glanced over.
“Want a hand?”
“Yes,” she said easily.
He passed them to her.
Later, after they had eaten, Elena carried her tea to the chair by the window. The dishes could wait. Through the open kitchen door, she could hear Ruth teasing her son about the crooked curtain rod.
On the wall, three small figures stood beneath a yellow sun.
Elena leaned back, warm cup between her hands, and let the people who loved her finish making themselves at home.
