Alone.
Daniel offered to come.
I said no.
He did not argue.
I walked through Oak Park and passed the building where Arthur and I had lived.
Someone had planted red flowers near the entrance.
I drank coffee at our old café.
Visited two friends.
Walked farther than Daniel probably would have liked.
Took a nap when I was tired.
And realized that was the whole point.
I could rest because I chose to rest.
Not because someone had decided I was too old to go.
When I returned to Arizona, Jack and Emily met me at the airport with Rebecca.
Emily waved a sign.
WELCOME HOME GRANDMA.
The same words that had hung over my bedroom door four years earlier.
But this time they meant something different.
Home was not their house.
Home was not my townhouse.
Home was not Illinois.
Home was being welcomed without being owned.
That Thanksgiving, one year after Hawaii, we gathered at my place.
It was too small for seven people once Linda joined us.
Perfect.
Daniel brought mashed potatoes.
Rebecca made sweet potatoes.
They were terrible.
We ate them anyway.
Jack set the table.
Emily made place cards.
Mine said:
GRANDMA
OWNER OF THIS HOUSE
