“You did. And I let you.”
He looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“I let you believe that because I loved you, I would always say yes. I should have corrected you sooner. That was my mistake. It does not make your choice to let your wife order me out of my own home acceptable.”
“I know.”
His wife joined us and listened. She said they had been under pressure and had treated the house as an answer to every problem. I told her pressure explained why people made mistakes; it did not erase the effect of those mistakes on someone else.
The following week, they found an apartment across town. It was smaller and more expensive than they wanted, but within their budget if they made changes. They arranged to move in on the first of the next month. I did not offer to pay the deposit. I did offer boxes, tape, and the use of my car for the smaller items.
My daughter-in-law asked if I could watch the children while they viewed the apartment. I said yes, provided they returned at the agreed time. They did. When they came back, the children told me they had picked the bedroom with the blue wall. I was glad for them.
On the last Saturday before the move, Matthew carried a box from the spare room and set it by the front door. “I found this under the bed,” he said. “Your old photo album.”
I opened it. The pages held pictures from the years we built the house: my hands covered in paint, the new kitchen before the cabinets were installed, Matthew sitting on a ladder while I tightened a bolt. In one picture, he was holding the drawing from the ledger and smiling at the camera.
He had been maybe eight or nine. On the back, in my handwriting, I had written: “He says he’ll build me a bigger house one day.”
Matthew read it twice. “I remember saying that.”
“So do I.”
“I thought I was keeping my promise by moving in.”
I looked at him. “You were keeping the part that suited you. The promise was that you’d make sure I had a safe home, not that you’d take mine.”
He closed the album. “I’m sorry.”
“I hear you.”
He stayed beside me as I turned the pages. There were pictures from school plays, summer picnics, the day we finished the patio, and the first time he made coffee for me in the little kitchen. None of them erased the months of silence or the scene at the door. But he was looking at them with me, not asking for the past to excuse him.
On moving day, the house filled with boxes. The children carried their books to the car and argued over who got to hold the houseplant. My daughter-in-law returned the bedroom to the way it had been when she arrived. She folded the spare blankets and put them in the closet. My mug remained on its shelf.
Before leaving, she stood by the front door. “I’m sorry I called you a witch. I was angry and wanted you to feel small.”
“That was cruel.”
“I know.”
“I hope you don’t speak to anyone else that way.”
“I won’t.”
Matthew hugged me. “Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“To ask how you are?”
“That would be a good reason.”
He smiled faintly. “I’ll do that.”
When the car pulled away, I walked through the quiet house. My bedroom was mine again. The perfume had faded from the curtains after I opened the windows. The shoes were gone from the entryway. The mug sat where I had left it, its handle turned toward my hand.
I expected to feel triumphant. Instead, I felt tired and sad. I missed the children’s footsteps already. I missed the sound of Matthew laughing in the kitchen. I also felt a relief so deep it seemed to loosen my shoulders for the first time in months.
