That first ice cream outing went well, according to both kids. Who came home chattering about a new flavor Deloris had let them each try before committing to a full scoop.
Milo, always the more cautious of the two, apparently spent nearly ten minutes deliberating between two flavors while Deloris waited patiently. Something he specifically mentioned to me later with genuine surprise in his voice. “She didn’t rush me at all,” he said. “Usually grown-ups rush me.” That comment stuck with me longer than almost anything else from that entire stretch of months.
She came for a visit two weeks later, and for the first time in eleven years, she knocked.
I stood in the doorway for a moment before opening it, genuinely surprised by the sound.
I actually checked the peephole before answering, half expecting to see a delivery driver instead. So foreign was the sound of an actual knock on that particular door. Deloris stood there holding a small potted plant, looking almost nervous. An expression I’d genuinely never associated with her before that moment.
It was a small succulent, nothing extravagant, the kind of gift that felt deliberately modest rather than performative. “For the kitchen windowsill,” she said, holding it out almost tentatively. “If you’d like it there.” I took it. It’s still there now, on that same windowsill, slightly bigger than it was that first awkward afternoon.
