She looked embarrassed. “The signature pressure looked wrong. I planned to confirm it with you at intake.”
I stared at the mark.
Before I ever said the words I didn’t sign anything, someone had already noticed that the paper did not quite match the person it claimed to represent.
I thought back to Janet kneeling beside spilled food and saying, I believe you.
I had assumed those words were kindness.
They were also professional judgment.
She had been paying attention.
I kept a copy of the page and let her destroy the rest.
The next spring, the daffodils came up unevenly because Daniel and I had planted half of them too deep.
I liked them better that way.
One Saturday, he came by for coffee. He knocked instead of using a key he no longer had. I opened the door because I wanted to.
We stood for a moment looking at the crooked line of yellow flowers.
“Not our best work,” he said.
“Our work,” I corrected.
He smiled.
That word felt safe again because, this time, I had chosen the project. I chose the boundary deliberately.
