I taped it to my refrigerator.
The next week changed something.
Not dramatically.
In small ways.
Daniel texted instead of calling five times.
Rebecca asked if I wanted to pick Emily up after school rather than assuming I would.
When I said no because I had lunch plans, she replied:
Have fun.
No guilt.
No follow-up question.
Jack came to the apartment Saturday and helped me assemble a bookshelf.
He read the instructions aloud with great authority while I corrected him whenever he skipped a page.
When Daniel picked him up, he stood in my doorway.
“This place is nice.”
“It is.”
“Small.”
“It’s temporary.”
He nodded.
“Jack said you’re taking a pottery class.”
“I am.”
“You hate pottery.”
“I hated pottery twenty years ago.”
“Since when do people stop hating pottery?”
“Since they become seventy-three and realize they’re allowed to change their minds.”
He smiled.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I miss you.”
The words were so quiet I nearly pretended not to hear them.
Instead, I said, “I miss you too.”
He looked toward the parking lot.
“Not the help.”
I waited.
“You,” he added.
That mattered.
More than I wanted him to know.
Two days later, Peter called.
