“Yes,” I said.
“I think I do.”
The apartment was smaller than it had looked online.
Of course it was.
Real estate photographs have the same relationship to reality that family Christmas letters do.
Everything appears brighter, wider, happier.
Still, the place had large windows, a small balcony, and a view of palm trees across the courtyard.
Luis and his crew carried in my furniture while I directed traffic.
The blue armchair went near the window.
Arthur’s mother’s sideboard fit against the dining wall.
My desk went into the second bedroom.
The coffee maker occupied the most important position in the kitchen.
Linda arrived at noon carrying sandwiches, two iced teas, and an orchid.
“What is that for?” I asked.
“People bring plants when someone starts a new chapter.”
“I’m renting for thirty days.”
“Then it’s a short chapter.”
She walked into the living room and surveyed the boxes.
“So.”
“So.”
“Are you terrified?”
“Yes.”
“Regret it?”
I considered the question.
“No.”
Linda nodded.
“Good. Then eat your sandwich.”
That afternoon we unpacked dishes while I told her the full story.
I told her about Hawaii.
I told her about the note.
And finally, I told her what I had heard Rebecca say six months earlier.
It’s not really her we need. It’s her money.
Linda stopped unwrapping a glass.
“You never told me that.”
“I was embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“Because I had spent three years telling everyone how wonderful it was living with family.”
“It can have been wonderful and still become something else.”
I sat down.
That sentence settled somewhere deep inside me.
For months I had been rewriting my own memories.
If Rebecca was ungrateful now, perhaps she had always been ungrateful.
If Daniel ignored me now, perhaps he had never loved me properly.
But that wasn’t true.
When Arthur died, Daniel had flown to Chicago the same night.
He slept in a chair beside my bed because I had been afraid of waking alone.
He handled funeral arrangements when I could barely remember my own telephone number.
Rebecca had packed my kitchen when I moved.
The grandchildren had taped a sign above my new Arizona bedroom.
WELCOME HOME GRANDMA.
Those things had happened too.
Maybe the most painful truth was that love could be genuine and still become careless.
That night, after Linda left, I sat alone on the balcony.
