“I am ready now,” I said.
“What will you do?”
I folded the note carefully.
“I will keep the house.”
Marissa smiled.
“As a shelter?”
“As a home.”
The following spring, we planted tulips along the front walk.
The work took most of the morning. The soil was stubborn, and my knees complained every time I bent down. Marissa tried to take the trowel from me.
“I can do it,” I said.
“I know.”
“Then stop watching me.”
“I am making sure you do not fall.”
“I have fallen before.”
“I know.”
I glanced at her.
She was smiling.
We planted the last bulb near the front steps.
“Robert planted these?” she asked.
“The first ones. They never grew well.”
“Why not?”
“He planted them upside down.”
She laughed.
The sound rose easily now.
We sat on the porch with lemonade.
A little girl from the foundation ran across the yard, chasing a yellow kite. Her mother called after her, and the girl turned, laughing, with the kite pulling high above her.
The front door opened.
A woman I had never met stood there with a suitcase.
She held the handle tightly.
Behind her, a boy of about six hid against her coat.
