Still, it was lonely sometimes.
One sunny morning, as I was repainting the porch railing—this time a softer white that matched my memories more than the glossy showroom shade Victoria had chosen—I heard a car door slam.
I expected it to be the property manager or maybe a neighbor. Instead, when I turned, cloth rag in one hand, paintbrush in the other, I saw Lily standing there.
She looked… different without her mother.
Smaller. Like a person instead of a persona.
She wore jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail, dark roots showing through the dyed blond. Her phone was still in her hand, but it hung at her side instead of being held up like a shield.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
Her voice was tentative, fingers fidgeting with her keys.
A dozen responses flickered through my mind—sarcastic, bitter, dismissive. Almost all of them had sharp edges.
Instead, I set the brush down on the tray and wiped my hands on the rag.
“Sure,” I said. “Come sit.”