“Tell her yes,” I said.
“Tell her she can have whichever room she wants.”
Daniel smiled.
It was his mother’s smile, the one that meant something had landed right.
I turned off the kitchen light.
We walked into the living room, where Karen was reading in the armchair and the lamp made a warm circle on the floor.
I sat down.
I picked up the green notebook from the side table.
I had started a second essay that morning — something about the letters I had received, about what it means when a stranger reads your words and feels less alone.
I opened to the page where I had stopped.
The last sentence I had written was: *She framed it and hung it above her desk, and I thought: this is what Margaret meant.
This is what she always meant.*
I read it once.
Then I picked up the pen and wrote the next line.
