For twenty-two years I had hated those cabinets.
Every time I considered replacing them, something more important came up.
Michael’s tuition.
The wedding.
A grandchild.
The house.
When the contractor gave me the estimate, I nearly said no.
Then I imagined Samuel asking, Whose emergency fund?
I signed.
The cabinets were blue.
Linda said they looked ridiculous.
I told her she didn’t fit in.
She threw a dish towel at me.
In October, we went to Canada.
On the second day in Quebec City, rain turned the sidewalks silver.
Linda complained about the hills.
I bought a red scarf I did not need.
We sat in a café near a window while tourists hurried past under umbrellas.
I thought about Robert.
The thought hurt.
But not in the old way.
I ordered a second coffee.
Linda raised an eyebrow.
“You never drink two.”
“I’m on vacation.”
“Look at you.”
“Don’t make it sentimental.”
She smiled.
That evening Michael called.
I answered from the hotel.
“How is it?”
“Beautiful.”
“Send pictures.”
“I’ve sent twelve.”
“Send more.”
I smiled.
Then he said, “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
I frowned.
