I had made it very clear that I couldn’t lend any money that month, because I still had to put all my money and emotional strength toward the surgery I was about to undergo, and I kept thinking my daughter-in-law would be understanding and stop there. But just a few minutes later, my phone lit up with a message from her, so cold that I was left stunned, unable to believe what had just appeared before my eyes.

I read it once, then again, then set the phone in my lap and looked out the window at the fields sliding past in green and brown bands. I did not know what I would say back. I did not know whether we would ever find our way to something truer than what had existed before, or whether too much had been left unspoken for too many years to build anything strong from here. I did not know if Sunday dinners would return, or what shape they would take if they did.

What I knew was this: I no longer needed those answers in order to feel stable.

That was the difference.

That was the thing that had changed.

By the time I reached Savannah, the air had softened.

Even stepping off the train felt different there, as though the day had more room in it. The station smelled faintly of diesel, rain-damp pavement, and the sweetness of something blooming nearby. My sister was waiting just beyond the barrier in a linen shirt and white sneakers, waving before she even saw that I had spotted her. She hugged me carefully because of my hip, then stepped back to look at me with the unembarrassed assessment only sisters are allowed.

“You look tired,” she said. “But better.”

“I am both,” I said.