The program opened its first homes in early summer.
There were no chandeliers and no microphone. Elena brought her children. Lucia arrived with pastries. Avery came in shirtsleeves and helped carry folding chairs.
Michael assembled a small bookcase beneath the upstairs window.
When one of the children asked him who owned the house, he glanced at me.
“My mother,” he said. “She made it a good place to begin.”
At sunset, we went back to my house.
Michael washed the dishes while I wrapped the leftover pastries. Through the open kitchen window came the smell of warm pavement and someone’s cut grass.
My hair curled close to my head now.
On the hall table lay a photograph from the duplex that afternoon. I stood between Lucia and Elena, laughing at something outside the frame.
I picked it up before bed.
For a moment, I thought of the woman in the bathroom mirror on the wedding morning, frightened by her own reflection.
I wished I could have shown her this picture.
Then I set it where I would see it in the morning, checked the front door, and switched off the lamp.
The house was quiet.
I slept.
