Chapter 6
That woman no longer existed.
She had loved my mother before losing her.
She had believed marriage could fix loneliness.
She had wanted children partly because she imagined family as a permanent shelter.
She had made choices with the information she had then.
I could care about her without trying to recreate her.
Six months after leaving the hospital, I rented an apartment.
Rebecca pretended to be enthusiastic.
She was terrible at it.
“This is great,” she said, standing in the empty living room.
“You look like someone cancelled Christmas.”
“I’m happy.”
“You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You are forty-two years old.”
“And you’re my little sister.”
“I’m forty.”
“Exactly. Practically helpless.”
I hugged her.
She held me tighter.
“I got used to having you around,” she admitted.
“I’m fifteen minutes away.”
“That’s inconveniently far.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
Her smile disappeared as soon as the words left her mouth.
We stood quietly.
Then I said, “So have I.”
She nodded.
And that was enough.
The apartment was small.
One bedroom.
A narrow kitchen.
A balcony overlooking a row of maple trees.
I bought a blue sofa because Luke had always hated blue furniture.
Then I almost returned it when I realized I had chosen it because of him.
Naomi laughed when I told her.
“What color do you like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then keep the sofa until you know.”
So I did.
Three months later I decided I genuinely liked it.
That felt absurdly important.
I returned to work gradually.
May you like
Before my marriage, I had worked in bookkeeping for a small architectural firm.
Luke had encouraged me to stop after my second pregnancy.
