When she came by that morning, the rain had just started and her hair was still damp at the ends. She carried a paper bag from the bakery downtown and set it on the table.
“Blueberry muffins,” she said. “And one cinnamon roll because I know you’ll pretend you don’t want it and then eat it anyway.”
“I raised you well,” I said.
She smiled, then saw the envelope on the table.
“What’s that?”
“My answer.”
She looked at the address, then up at me. “You’re sure?”
“Completely.”
She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, as if expecting it to weigh more.
“They’ve gone quiet,” she said. “Too quiet.”
“Good,” I replied. “Let the silence do the talking for once.”
She sat down at the kitchen table and wrapped her hands around the tea I poured her. Rain tapped softly against the window. The house smelled like citrus and pastry and damp spring air.
