At one point he turned the table upside down and stopped. On the underside, half hidden beneath years of paint, were two uneven initials scratched into the iron: B and C.
He touched them gently. “I did that when you first bought it,” he said. “Remember? You said it was our spot to watch the sunset.”
Barbara had forgotten. He’d been visiting during his college summer break, still young enough to sit barefoot beside her and talk about everything he wanted to become. She’d said their spot, not their property, and that had once been enough for him.
They left the initials where they were. A little scratch didn’t give either of them ownership over the other. It simply proved that love could leave a mark without demanding a deed.
That evening Caleb finished cleaning the brushes and stood at the door. “May I come back next month?” he asked.
Barbara looked at the newly painted table, the open balcony, the waves beyond. “Call me,” she said. “We’ll make a plan.”
There were still letters from the attorney in her desk and awkward conversations ahead. Harper had not apologized to her directly, and Barbara wouldn’t invent an apology on her behalf. She had learned that a peaceful home wasn’t one where everyone agreed all the time. It was one where nobody was required to surrender their dignity just to prevent someone else’s anger. That was worth more than the most ambitious renovation plan.
After he left, Barbara carried two cups outside, then returned one to the cupboard. She sat in the seat she’d chosen for herself and watched the light move across the water. The condo was still hers. More importantly, so was the decision about who shared it.
