Claire studied the picture.
“You look happy.”
“I was.”
“Are you happy now?”
Eleanor looked through the window.
Michael was in the garden, struggling with a stubborn rosebush. He had planted it after Eleanor told him that flowers did not care who had been right. Claire’s schoolbag rested by the stairs. The kettle began to whistle.
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “I am.”
Claire sat on the arm of the chair.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask.”
“Why didn’t you sell the house after everything?”
Eleanor looked around the kitchen. At the repaired pantry. The bright refrigerator. The empty hook where the house rules had hung.
“Because this house was never the problem.”
Claire smiled.
“What was?”
“People forgetting that love is not ownership.”
Claire rested her head against Eleanor’s.
From the garden, Michael called, “Mom, where are the pruning shears?”
“Under the sink!”
“No, they aren’t!”
“You put them in the shed!”
A moment later, he shouted, “Found them!”
Claire laughed.
Eleanor rose from the blue chair and carried the photograph to the refrigerator. She placed it beneath a new sheet of paper.
Not house rules.
A handwritten list.
Tea at four.
Leave the lamp on.
Come in without knocking.
She stepped back.
