Sophie invited us to dinner on a Friday.
Her apartment was on the second floor of a brick building near the river.
There were pots of herbs outside the door.
A doormat read HELLO, PROBABLY.
Ethan laughed at it.
“Very welcoming.”
Sophie opened the door before we knocked twice.
She had flour on her sleeve.
“I burned the first tray of rolls.”
“Then we're right on schedule,” I said.
The room smelled of garlic and rosemary.
Pickles the cat watched us suspiciously from a windowsill.
Sophie had arranged a quiet place for Ava's carrier away from the kitchen traffic.
She showed us where the changing supplies could go.
Then she asked if I wanted her to hold Ava while I washed my hands.
I said yes.
Nobody made a ceremony of it.
The walls were covered with photographs.
I recognized coworkers from Sophie's old job and a few friends from college.
There were pictures of mountain hikes and a weekend by the ocean.
There was a photograph of the two of us at the county fair when I was sixteen.
I was holding a paper cup of lemonade.
Sophie had blue cotton candy stuck to her chin.
“You framed that?” I asked.
She looked embarrassed.
“It was a good day.”
“I remember.”
Mom had told me years earlier that Sophie had discarded most of our family photographs.
Apparently not.
We sat down to eat.
Ethan told Sophie about a colleague who had accidentally installed the wrong cabinet handles in a client kitchen.
Sophie responded with a story about a delivery truck sent to a completely different town.
For the first time in years, we had a conversation that didn't pass through Mom.
Nobody asked whether the other sister was being selfish.
Nobody compared our schedules.
We simply ate dinner.
Afterward Sophie showed us a small box she'd bought for Ava.
Inside were baby socks and a board book about animals.
She'd written a note inside the cover.
“For Ava, with love from Aunt Sophie, who will always answer your questions.”
I read it twice.
Sophie touched my shoulder.
“That includes the hard ones.”
Ethan looked away politely.
He had learned to recognize when my throat was too tight for conversation.
Later, while he changed Ava, Sophie and I washed the plates.
She admitted she had been nervous about hosting us.
“Why?”
“I thought you'd inspect everything.”
I turned toward her.
“Why would I?”
“Mom always said you were particular about how things should be done.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“Have you seen my laundry room?”
“Not recently.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
Sophie smiled.
Then she said she used to feel small around me.
I dried a plate slowly.
“Was that because of something I did?”
“Sometimes.”
I waited.
“You used to correct me in front of people.”
I remembered doing it.
Not every time.
But enough.
“I thought I was helping.”
“I know. It still embarrassed me.”
“I'm sorry.”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
It would have been easy to blame all our distance on Mom.
But that would have denied the smaller choices we'd made ourselves.
I told Sophie she'd sometimes borrowed things without asking and then acted as though I was unreasonable for wanting them back.
She laughed ruefully.
“I was awful about that.”
“You were.”
“I'm sorry too.”
We didn't need a dramatic embrace.
We finished the dishes.
Then we brought tea into the living room.
At nine Ethan carried Ava to the car.
Sophie walked us downstairs.
She hugged me on the landing.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for inviting me.”
She smiled at Ava.
“Come back when you can.”
In the car, Ethan waited until I'd settled my seat belt.
“You looked happy tonight.”
“I was.”
He started the engine.
“Good.”
On the drive home my phone buzzed.
It was Mom.
She had seen a photograph Sophie posted of the dinner table.
“Nice to see my daughters making plans without their mother,” she wrote.
I showed the message to Ethan.
He didn't tell me what to do.
I thought about Sophie's apartment.
The framed photograph.
The signed children's book.
The feeling of being invited because somebody wanted me there.
Then I wrote to Mom.
“We'd be glad to make plans with you too. Please ask us directly instead of making either of us feel guilty for seeing the other.”
No answer came that night.
I turned the phone facedown and watched the streetlights move past.
For once, I did not let silence erase a good evening.
After our first dinner at Sophie's apartment, I found myself noticing all the gaps in what I knew about her.
I didn't know the names of most of her friends.
I wasn't sure which days she worked from home.
I didn't know she'd started running in the mornings until she mentioned the shoes by her door.
So I began asking questions without turning them into an interview.
When she sent a picture of a new plant, I asked where she'd found it.
When she complained about a project at work, I asked whether she wanted advice or just somebody to listen.
Usually she wanted somebody to listen.
I recognized that desire.
For years Mom had responded to any problem of mine with an explanation of why it wasn't serious.
Now I understood why that made me feel so alone.
A week later Sophie asked me to meet her at a small bookstore.
Ethan stayed with Ava for an hour.
I walked into the shop and found Sophie in front of a shelf of mysteries.
She held two paperbacks.
“One for you, one for me,” she said.
We chose different books and agreed to exchange them when we'd finished.
At the checkout she found a collection of nursery rhymes for Ava.
She wanted to buy it.
I told her she didn't need to keep bringing gifts.
“I know,” she said.
“I want to.”
I had to learn the difference.
A gift freely offered wasn't a debt I had to repay.
Later we sat at a coffee shop next door.
Sophie admitted she worried about becoming too attached to Ava.
“Why?” I asked.
“What if you and I fight again?”
I understood the fear.
We had spent years living with relationships that could vanish after one misunderstanding.
I told her adults could disagree without disappearing.
And whatever happened between us, we would not use Ava as a weapon.
She looked relieved.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Then I corrected myself.
“I can't promise we'll never disappoint each other. I can promise we'll talk before giving up.”
She nodded.
“That sounds better.”
When I came home, Ava was sleeping in Ethan's arms.
I showed him the books.
He laughed at the enormous stack of unread novels already on the shelf.
“Another one?”
“It's a sister project.”
He set the baby down carefully.
“Then we'd better make room.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: My Parents Remembered a Different Version of the Hospital Call Than the One I Lived
The Seven Stitches, My Sleeping Daughter, and the Answer I Never Expected From Dad
Part 10 of 16
