“Sarah?”
“Come in.”
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a photograph.
It showed her late husband, Robert, standing beside Jenna in front of their old house.
“He would have been devastated,” she said.
I sat beside her.
“Robert?”
She nodded.
“He spent twenty years building that home. He fixed the roof himself. He planted the trees in the garden. He used to tell Jenna that a house wasn’t just walls and windows. It was the place where you learned what kind of person you wanted to become.”
She wiped her eyes.
“And now she’s destroyed it.”
“She’s done something terrible,” I said. “But she hasn’t destroyed you.”
Sarah gave a tired laugh.
“You make everything sound so simple.”
“It’s a gift.”
“It’s an annoying gift.”
“Also a gift.”
She looked at me.
For a moment, I thought she might cry again.
Instead, she reached for my hand.
