Lorraine was quiet on the phone.
“Margaret,” she said. “After what they did?”
“After what they did,” I said. “Because of what they did.”
“Explain that to me,” Lorraine said.
I looked out my window. At the porch. At the swing.
“I spent eighteen months being useful,” I said. “Being needed. Never being asked what I wanted. Never being thanked.”
“Yes.”
“Renee’s spent four years doing the same thing,” I said. “For her mother. Who doesn’t know her name anymore.”
I looked at the sign.
“Somebody should take something off her shelf,” I said.
I didn’t give Daniel and Renee the house.
They asked. Eventually. Not right away. Daniel brought it up in April. Carefully.
“Mom,” he said. “The house. Willow Creek. You’re not going to need four bedrooms forever. Have you thought about—maybe someday—”
“No,” I said.
He looked at me.
“It’s my house, Daniel,” I said. “I’m going to live in it. Until I die. On this porch. With my second cup.”
