In the breakfast nook his father built.
“Mom,” he said. “You shouldn’t live alone.”
“I’m fine, Daniel.”
“You’re seventy,” he said. “This house is old. The roof needs work. The air conditioning’s twenty years old. What if you fall? What if something happens and nobody’s here?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Move in with us,” Daniel said. “For a while. Just until you’re ready.”
He took my hand.
“Renee agrees,” he said. “The kids would love it. We have the room. The casita by the pool. It’s got its own bathroom. Its own entrance.”
He squeezed my hand.
“Just until you’re ready, Mom,” he said.
I believed him.
I sold the house on East Linden Street.
I sold my yellow kitchen.
My six rose bushes.
The porch with the wobbly ceiling fan.
The breakfast nook with our initials carved underneath.
The rocker. I couldn’t bring the rocker. Renee said there wasn’t room.
