Hanging on a porch on Willow Creek Lane.
Where my son wanted to live.
I didn’t tell Daniel.
Not right away.
He called every Sunday. For about a month. Polite. Short.
How’s the new place, Mom? You settling in? You need anything?
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m settling in.”
He never asked where it was.
He never asked to visit.
Then the calls stopped.
Not because he was angry. Because he was busy. Because I wasn’t there anymore. Making dinner. Driving the kids. Folding laundry.
Because I wasn’t useful.
Lorraine asked me in December if I was going to tell him.
“About the house?” I said. “Or the money?”
“Either,” Lorraine said.
I thought about it.
“Not yet,” I said.
“What are you waiting for?”
I looked out the window of my yellow kitchen.
At the porch. At the swing. At the sign.
“For him to come,” I said. “Not because he needs something.”
