We took the train on Saturday morning.
Claire had packed two small bags.
I had brought my blue sweater.
I folded it carefully into my suitcase, almost as though I were carrying a promise.
When we arrived, the air smelled of salt, warm crêpes, and the sea.
The same narrow streets.
The same low houses.
The same cries of seagulls overhead.
But I was no longer the same woman who had stood on that beach months earlier.
And Claire had changed, too.
We left our bags in a modest guesthouse above a quiet little building.
Nothing luxurious.
Just two beds, a small window overlooking the rooftops, and a glimpse of the sea between the houses.
Claire put her bag down and turned to me.
“Mom, would you like to rest before we go out?”
I almost laughed.
For years, that question would have been followed by another request.
Could you watch Noah?
