Then Margaret began telling a story from my childhood.
“When Emily was six, she decided she was going to run away because I wouldn’t let her eat chocolate cake for breakfast.”
I groaned.
“Please don’t tell that story.”
Sarah leaned forward, delighted.
“What happened?”
Margaret grinned.
“She packed a schoolbag with three crayons, a toy rabbit, and half a sandwich. Then she walked to the end of the driveway and sat there for twenty minutes because she was afraid of crossing the street.”
Sarah laughed so hard that tears appeared in her eyes.
“I wish I could have seen that.”
I looked at her.
“You would have laughed at me, too.”
“Absolutely.”
For a moment, I felt a strange ache.
I thought about all the birthdays Sarah had missed, the school performances she had never attended, the childhood stories she hadn’t been there to witness.
Those years were gone.
No conversation could return them to us.
