Theodore put down the photo. “I’m going to take care of what can’t speak for itself.”
Dorothy listened and felt the old grief rise—never gone, only changed—but braided through it now was pride so fierce it almost frightened her.
When it was her turn, she touched the headstone and smiled.
“They’re exactly the kind of trouble you’d have loved,” she said.
Afterward they drove home, and home still meant Birchwood Lane.
The yellow nursery walls had long since become guest room paint, then study paint, then eventually stayed yellow simply because no one could bear to change them. The garden had matured. The porch swing had been replaced twice. The mailbox no longer had glitter, though traces of Margot’s first attempt remained deep in the grooves.
Inside, the house was full of ordinary life.
Shoes by the door. Dishes in the sink. College brochures. Vet school mailers. A half-finished science article Bridget had left on the coffee table. A pie cooling by the window because Dorothy still made apple the way Colleen liked it.
Love, Dorothy had learned, did not erase loss.
It built around it.
Room by room.
Meal by meal.
Story by story.