“So do you.”
The waiter poured two glasses.
Later, after dinner, Judith reached into her handbag and handed me a small object wrapped in tissue paper.
Inside was a simple silver keychain shaped like a compass.
“What is this?”
She looked embarrassed. “Eleanor says I’m terrible at speeches.”
“She’s right.”
Judith laughed.
Then she touched the compass with one finger.
“For years, I thought being taken care of meant letting someone else choose the direction.”
My throat tightened.
“You reminded me to look at the map myself.”
I closed my hand around the small metal compass.
“No,” I said. “You did that.”
We walked outside together into the same warm North Texas air where I had once sat in Mark’s pickup rubbing my swollen knee and wondering what he was afraid to tell me.
This time, Judith linked her arm through mine carefully, mindful of my balance.
Behind us, the restaurant doors closed on the noise of the dining room.
Ahead of us, the parking lot was quiet.
For the first time, neither of us needed someone else to explain where we belonged.
