Near the river stood a young oak tree. A small plaque identified it as Daniel’s tree, planted by Margaret the week his sentence began.
Tiffany stopped.
“Why did you plant one for him?”
Margaret looked at the leaves moving in the wind.
“Because I wanted to remember that a person can do something terrible and still be more than the worst thing he has done.”
“Do you forgive him?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s honest.”
“I may never trust him again.”
“That’s honest too.”
Margaret touched the tree’s thin trunk.
“Forgiveness is not the same as opening the door.”
Tiffany nodded.
“What is it, then?”
“Sometimes it is putting down the key.”
Tiffany looked at the river.
“I hope he learns.”
“So do I.”
They stood quietly.
No danger waited in the distance. No new secret was hidden beneath the soil. The past had not become harmless, but it had stopped directing every movement they made.
When the garden closed, Margaret walked back to the house.
The sun was low. The river carried a long ribbon of gold. In the kitchen, she placed the empty ring box on a shelf beside her husband’s old watch.
Then she opened a drawer and removed the first page of the original wedding contract.
She tore it in half.
Then she tore it again.
The pieces went into the fireplace.
One by one, the ashes lifted and disappeared.
Margaret stepped outside with two cups of tea.
Elaine was waiting on the garden bench.
“You’re late,” Elaine said.
