“Maybe once the terrace is fixed, we could have coffee up there. Just the two of us.”
I shook my head.
“Karen, I’m not ready for that.”
Her expression fell.
“I thought we were moving past this.”
“I’m moving forward. That doesn’t mean everything goes back to how it was.”
She looked at the envelope again.
“I understand.”
This time, I believed she was beginning to.
I accepted her offer to contribute toward the repairs, but made it clear that money wouldn’t buy access to my home.
After she left, I returned to the kitchen.
I didn’t feel triumphant.
I felt tired.
Still, for the first time since Michael died, I made a decision about the terrace without worrying whether anyone else would approve.
The repairs took several weeks.
I watched the workers remove damaged boards and reinforce the structure.
Some afternoons, I had to turn away.
Other days, I stood nearby, asking questions.
