The one I’d used for groceries when Derek was alive. The one Adam never knew existed. And the recipient? I smiled.
Kieran Harlow. I handed her the routing information he’d included in his note. It’s not a huge amount, I said.
Just a little something. For books. Or groceries.
Or getting away, if he ever needs to. Mari tapped at her keyboard. You’re the first person I’ve seen in months send money without strings attached.
That’s the point. It felt good. Not like revenge.
Sharper than that. Like closure. I walked out of the bank and into the crisp air, coat buttoned, collar up.
The wind didn’t bite. It nudged. Like a reminder.
At home, Joyce was watching game shows. You look smug again, she said without looking up. I made a decision.
Anyone die? Not yet. She grinned. That night I wrote one last letter.
This one wasn’t for the family. It was for the lawyer, Derek Sorenson. I kept it brief.
To whom it may concern, there is no cause for further legal contact. I am of sound mind, in a safe environment, and not under duress. I have retained local legal counsel.
Any further attempts to contact me under the guise of concern will be considered harassment. Sincerely, Martha Harlow. I signed it with a steady hand and dropped it off at the post office the next morning.
That was the final cut. I wasn’t angry anymore. Just done.
At the cafe, Heather handed me an extra shift without asking. You’re the only one who shows up early, she said. The rest want applause for showing up at all.
Arthur came in just before noon. He looked tired, but steady. We sat by the window with tea instead of coffee.
You look lighter, he said. I wrote a letter, I said. The last one.
He didn’t ask what it said. He only nodded. Sometimes it’s the unsent ones that change everything, he said.
Sometimes it’s the ones you send without waiting for a reply. When I got home that evening, I stood in the doorway for a moment. The house smelled like garlic and dryer sheets.
Franklin patted up and head-butted my shin. Joyce looked up from the kitchen. I made pasta.
Hope you’re hungry. I was. Hungry.
Free. Unafraid. Everything I hadn’t been in years.
Joyce turned seventy on a Tuesday. She didn’t want a party. People start singing and I want to run, she said.
But I baked a chocolate cake anyway and left it on the kitchen table with two candles and a card that read, You’re not old. You’re vintage. She laughed when she saw it.
I guess I can tolerate cake, she said, slicing it thick. That night, we sat on the porch with slices balanced on paper plates, wrapped in quilts, watching the moon rise. It was a quiet celebration.
The kind I never used to believe counted. But they do. Maybe more than the loud ones.
You know, Joyce said, you’ve been here almost two months. I know. You planning to stay? I looked out at the street, empty and soft under streetlight.
Yes, she nodded. Good. This house is weird without someone yelling at the cat.
We toasted with lukewarm tea. Franklin yawned and curled tighter between our feet. The next day, Heather gave me an envelope.
What’s this? Your name’s on it. No return address. But the postmark’s local.
I opened it after my shift, sitting on the back step behind the cafe. Inside was a letter. The handwriting was large, deliberate.
Grandma. I’m coming to Portland. I want to see you.
I’m not bringing anyone. I just want to talk. I’m staying at the Red Fern Motel on Maple.
Room 12. If you want to come by, I’ll be there Friday and Saturday. If not, I’ll understand.
Kieran. There was no guilt in it. No pressure.
Just a boy. No. A man now.
Reaching out with quiet hands. Friday morning came faster than expected. I dressed carefully.
Not for him. For me. Navy coat.
Clean shirt. Lipstick the color of dried cherries. I didn’t tell Joyce where I was going.
She didn’t ask. The Red Fern was modest. Clean but tired.
I knocked once. He opened the door like he’d been waiting with his hand on the knob. He was taller than I remembered.
Scruff on his jaw. Shadows under his eyes. But the same gentleness in the way he looked at me.
Hi, Grandma. Hi, Sweetheart. He didn’t hug me right away.
He stepped back and let me in. The room smelled like takeout and hotel soap. The bed was made, but the desk was cluttered with books.
He’d brought books. That said everything. We sat.
Not too close. Like we knew we needed space before warmth. I didn’t know if you’d come, he said.
I didn’t know either, he nodded. I read your letter. The one you didn’t send.
You left it in the drawer. Mom found it. Of course she did.
I’m glad you didn’t send it, he said. But I’m more glad you wrote it. We talked.
About small things. Big things. How his job was going.
How I liked Portland. How freedom tasted when no one was watching. I think about you a lot, he said.
You were the only person who ever made me feel enough. Just by sitting beside me. I reached over and took his hand.
You always were enough. You still are. We didn’t cry.
Neither of us. But we breathed deeper. He didn’t ask if I was coming back.
I didn’t ask if he was staying. We knew better than that. Before I left, he handed me a small, wrapped bundle.
Inside was a book of poems. I underlined the ones that made me think of you, he said. That night, I read them one by one.
By lamplight. Slowly. One line stayed with me.
There are women who rise not from fire, but from forgetting who told them they couldn’t. And I slept with the window cracked, the sound of wind soft like a second chance. The next morning, I walked to the cafe like usual.
Same coat. Same steps. But something was different.
Not around me. In me. Kieran had gone back to the motel after breakfast.
His train was at noon. We didn’t say goodbye. Just hugged long and quiet in the lobby while someone vacuumed in the next room.
He held on the way boys do when they’re not sure they’re still allowed. Be good to yourself, I whispered. You too, he said.
Finally. At the cafe, Heather handed me a new apron. Found this in a clearance bin.
Thought of you. It was deep green with stitched lettering. Not your grandma’s kitchen.
I laughed, loud and full. Arthur looked up from his booth and raised his mug like a salute. After my shift, I walked home slowly.
The sky was overcast, the air soft. Franklin greeted me at the door, already grumpy I was late for his 2 p.m. stretch and yowl. Joyce was in the kitchen with a pot of something fragrant on the stove.