“And maybe a garden.”
“Of course.”
“And a guest room.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
“Why?”
“So my son can visit.”
Her expression softened.
“But only when I invite him.”
We both laughed.
Three weeks later, I sold the old house.
The money went into an account under my name alone.
I bought a small white cottage near the water.
It had a porch.
A garden.
Two rocking chairs.
And a quiet corner for Ernest’s photograph.
I wasn’t replacing him.
I was making space for him.
One Sunday afternoon, someone knocked.
I knew who stood outside before opening the door.
Austin was alone.
No sunglasses.
No expensive shirt.
No demanding tone.
Just my son.
He carried a small box.
“Can I come in?”
I studied him.
Then moved aside.
Austin set the box on the table.
Inside were my wedding earrings.
The earrings I had sold years earlier to afford Ernest’s medicine.
I stared at them.
“Where did you get these?”
