When I opened the door, she looked past me into the hallway.
Her face changed.
“Oh,” she whispered.
I stepped aside.
She walked slowly into the house.
For a moment, she didn’t seem to know where to look.
Then she saw the kitchen.
The yellow curtains.
The table.
The blue birds above the window.
She covered her mouth.
“Daniel painted those himself.”
“I know,” I said.
She approached the table and ran her fingers along its edge.
“He made this table last winter before we lost the house. He told me he was going to build a matching set of chairs.”
Her voice faltered.
“He never finished them.”
Ethan stood near the doorway, giving her space.
Mom looked at the chairs.
Four mismatched chairs.
One old memory restored without pretending that every detail of the past had been perfect.
She began to cry.
“I thought I had to be practical,” she said. “I thought if I stopped worrying about money, everything would fall apart.”
