The locks had been changed. The rooms had been cleaned, and the belongings that had been removed from Sofia’s bedroom were restored.
I had repainted her walls a soft blue after she chose the color herself.
The photograph of Elena was back on the hallway table.
Sofia stood in front of it for a long time.
“Mom would have been angry,” she said quietly.
“She would have been furious.”
Sofia gave a small laugh.
“She always said you were too patient.”
“Your mother was usually right about that.”
We walked into the kitchen.
The table where I had made pancakes that first morning stood beneath the window. I had kept it because Sofia wanted it to stay.
She ran her hand along its surface.
“Do you remember what you told me here?”
“I told you that this was your home.”
“And that I didn’t have to ask permission to sit at the table.”
