I did not embrace her. Not yet. Instead, I held out the photograph of Harold.
She accepted it carefully.
“He wanted this,” I said.
Petra studied the picture.
“I know.”
“No,” I said. “You know the plans. You know the room. But he wanted people here. He wanted the house to be useful, even when it was messy.”
She pressed the photograph to her chest.
“I am sorry I forgot that.”
“You never knew it.”
“Then I am sorry I refused to know it.”
That apology reached a place the others had not.
I touched her arm.
She covered my hand with hers.
Her fingers were warm. They trembled once, then steadied.
Outside, someone began laughing. A child ran across the porch. The kitchen door swung open, releasing the scent of cinnamon and apples.
Dex came to stand beside us.
“Mom,” he said, “there is one more thing.”
He led me to the far wall. A small section of plaster had been left unfinished, revealing the original brick beneath it.
In the center was a narrow wooden door I had never seen.
Dex opened it.
Inside was a shallow space filled with old jars, handwritten recipes, and a tin box.
I looked at him.
“When did you find this?”
“During the renovation.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted everyone here when you opened it.”
He handed me the tin box.
The lid had Harold’s handwriting on it.
For the first meal.
Inside were dozens of seed packets, carefully preserved. Tomatoes, beans, basil, mint, and flowers. Beneath them was another note.
