I ladled the jam into jars and sealed the lids. Tomorrow, I would mail one to each of the women with a note.
“You are my favorite place,” the note would say.
Because they were. Those ordinary, underappreciated women who stayed kind without being rewarded.
They were the place I had been looking for all along. Not a lake house or a deed, but a table long enough for everyone and a door that stayed open.
THE END.