Satisfied.S.
But I dismissed the thought.
Maybe she was stressed.
Maybe I was reading too much into it.
That evening, I pulled my old suitcase from the hall closet.
I folded cardigans.
Slippers.
A few comfortable dresses.
Then tucked two gifts inside.
A wooden puzzle for Noah.
A book of fairy tales for Lily.
I wrapped the jam jars carefully between my clothes.
When I finished packing, I sat on the edge of my bed.
And I allowed myself to acknowledge something I rarely said aloud.
Since Frank died, I had begun feeling less like part of my family and more like someone visiting the edges of it.
Jason called.
But not as often as he used to.
Everyone had busy lives.
I understood that.
Holidays were louder now, filled with conversations I didn’t always know how to enter.
Sometimes I sat on the sofa watching everyone else move around me and wondered when I had become the older woman people smiled at politely before returning to their phones.
The thought embarrassed me.
So I pushed it away.
“I won’t be a burden,” I whispered.
Then, without realizing what I was saying:
“I’ll make myself useful.”
Perhaps that was my first mistake.
The next morning, I left before sunrise.
The drive took nearly three hours.
I spent most of it thinking about Lily and Noah.
We would bake cookies.
Maybe take a walk.
I could read Lily her new book.
Noah loved helping me mix pancake batter, although most of it usually ended up on the floor.
For the first time in weeks, I felt needed.
Wanted.
When I finally pulled into Jason and Melissa’s driveway, I sat for a moment and smoothed my hair in the mirror.
Their house was large.
Tall windows.
Wide lawn.
Beautiful neighborhood.
The sort of place where every hedge looked professionally trimmed.
The front door opened.
Melissa stood there in silk pajamas with her phone in one hand.
“Margaret!”
She smiled.
“You made it.”
I climbed out.
“Where are my little monsters?”
“Still asleep.”
She waved toward the hallway.
