In April, I bought three peony plants from a garden center outside Ligonier.
The woman at the register asked whether I wanted pink or white.
I said both.
Daniel used to complain that I could never choose one flower when two were available.
I carried the pots to the back garden and placed them beside his wooden stakes.
The soil was damp from rain.
I knelt on an old cushion and dug until my hands ached.
Ruth came the following weekend and helped me set stones along the edge.
We worked without talking much.
When we finished, she brought out lemonade and two mismatched glasses.
“What's next?” she asked.
“I think I want to join the library here.”
She laughed.
“That's a much better answer than ‘I should call Ryan.’”
I did call him eventually.
Not to discuss the repayment agreement.
I asked whether he still had the photographs from Daniel's seventieth birthday.
He said he did.
A week later, an envelope arrived with printed copies.
In the first photograph, Daniel stood by our dining-room table wearing the paper crown Ryan's children used to give grown-ups at their parties.
We had no grandchildren ourselves.
The crown belonged to a neighbor's little boy who liked Daniel.
Ryan had taken the picture while laughing.
I studied his face in the reflection behind the glass cabinet.
He looked happy.
He was capable of that kind of uncomplicated joy.
I wondered where he had put it.
I placed the photographs in an album and sent a short thank-you.
That was enough contact for the week.
By May, I had become familiar with the Saturday farmers' market.
A woman named Judith sold sourdough and remembered that I preferred the crusty loaf.
The hardware-store owner helped me replace a broken porch light.
The librarian recommended a mystery novel and asked whether I wanted to join a walking group.
I said yes before I could invent an excuse.
The first walk left me out of breath.
Two other women fell back to keep me company.
One had lost her sister.
The other was newly retired and frightened by how empty her calendar looked.
We talked about weather and sore knees.
Nobody asked who would inherit my house.
Nobody needed to know about the check.
For an hour, I was simply Helen.
One evening I opened Daniel's recipe folder and found a card for the pecan pie he liked.
He had written extra cinnamon in the margin.
At the bottom was an instruction to serve it warm.
I made the pie the next day.
I carried two slices to Judith at the market.
She took one bite and said the crust was better than anything she could make.
I knew she was being generous.
I enjoyed the compliment anyway.
Back at the city house, I started sorting cupboards.
I gave away clothing I had kept only because Daniel once liked it.
I kept the red Christmas dress.
It was not the dress's fault that I had worn it on a lonely day.
Ruth helped me rearrange the living room so Daniel's chair no longer faced the empty place where his hospital equipment had stood.
We moved a bookcase and carried out a worn rug.
By supper, the room looked familiar but different.
I stood in the doorway for a long time.
Ruth asked whether I regretted changing it.
“No,” I said.
“I think I can live in this room again.”
That night Ryan sent a photo of the receipt for another payment.
I acknowledged it.
Then I closed the message and opened my library book.
I was learning that a day did not have to revolve around the worst thing my son had done.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: A Missed Payment Tested Whether My Rules Were Real Or Only Words
The Christmas Dinner I Prepared For Three Ended With A Courier At My Door
Part 13 of 16
