“That you were alive?”
Melissa nodded.
I thought of Dorothy sitting beside an unidentified woman in a rehabilitation room, wearing her green scarf and talking about cinnamon rolls.
“I think she hoped.”
Melissa touched Dorothy’s photograph.
“She was always better at that than we were.”
“Yes.”
Behind us, Ava called, “Mom, Grandpa, come on!”
Melissa froze.
It was the first time Ava had called her Mom without hesitation.
Nobody made a ceremony of it.
Melissa simply turned.
“Coming.”
But I saw her wipe one tear from her cheek before she joined us.
After breakfast, Ava opened presents.
Calvin washed dishes.
Melissa dried.
I sat at the table with coffee and watched them argue about whether a baking sheet belonged in the lower cabinet.
There was nothing extraordinary about the moment.
That was exactly why it mattered.
For seven years, I had believed healing would mean getting something back.
My daughter.
