I dreaded meeting her.
For years, our family had mourned beside an urn that should have belonged to hers.
But Rebecca did not blame us.
“How could you have known?” she asked.
She sat at my kitchen table holding a photograph of Nora.
“She stopped calling after our father died. We had an argument. I always thought she just wanted distance.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
Melissa sat beside Rebecca.
Neither woman tried to fill the silence.
Finally Rebecca said, “She hated thunderstorms.”
Melissa’s eyes changed.
“I remember rain.”
Rebecca looked at her.
“It was raining that night.”
“Yes.”
Melissa pressed her fingers together.
“Nora asked me to drive slower.”
Rebecca inhaled sharply.
I worried we had gone too far.
But Melissa continued gently.
“She had bought something for her nephew.”
“What?”
“A baseball glove.”
Rebecca covered her mouth.
“My son.”
Melissa nodded.
“She kept it on her lap because she didn’t want it crushed.”
