Chapter 5
Emma’s interview was on a Thursday.
I did not call to remind her. She had asked for space, and I wanted her to feel that her future belonged to her. I sent one message in the morning: I hope they see what I see in your work.
She replied with a heart an hour later.
That small answer carried me through the day.
Vanessa stayed with Celia. We spoke through a counselor we agreed to see together. At our first session, Vanessa said she had felt like a guest in a house built around Rachel’s memory.
I listened. The photographs of Rachel in Emma’s room and the sewing machine were never meant to make Vanessa feel unwelcome. I could understand that she had struggled.
Then the counselor asked how that feeling related to charging Emma rent.
“I wanted her to become independent,” Vanessa said.
“And I needed money for Celia,” she added after a long pause.
The counselor asked why she had not told us the second reason.
“I thought David would say no.”
“I might have said no to seven hundred dollars a month,” I answered. “I would have listened to a request for help.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“You listen after you’ve made up your mind.”
I thought about how often I had rushed through dinner and asked everyone to tell me only the urgent things. Maybe she had felt unheard too. I could own that without accepting what she did to Emma.
“I want to get better at listening,” I said. “Emma’s money still wasn’t yours to take.”
Vanessa nodded, though it cost her.
After the session, I drove to Maya’s with a box of food Emma had said she missed. I left it at the door as agreed. Maya came out while I was heading back to the car.
“She ate breakfast before the interview,” she said.
“Good.”
“She’s scared you’ll expect her to come home if she gets the position.”
“I don’t.”
Maya studied my face.
“She loves you. She needs to know you can love her even if she lives somewhere else.”
“I can.”
“Tell her when she’s ready to hear it.”
I thanked her and left.
On Friday, the Richmond program called Emma with an offer. It was a paid position for one year. She would work with an architecture team restoring public spaces. She called me herself that evening.
“I got it,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I knew they’d see your work.”
“They asked about the drawings with the community garden. The ones you helped me carry to my first exhibition.”
“I remember.”
“I want to take it.”
“Then take it.”
“It’s two hours away.”
“I can drive two hours.”
She laughed, then grew quiet.
“I thought you’d ask me to stay.”
“I’ll miss you. I won’t ask you to give this up.”
I heard her cry softly. I wanted to go to her, but she kept talking.
“Vanessa said you’d be alone if I left.”
“I’ll manage my own feelings. That’s my responsibility.”
We stayed on the phone for nearly an hour, discussing neighborhoods and the office she would join. For the first time since that afternoon at the table, she told me about her life without measuring each word.
Then she asked about Vanessa.
“We’re in counseling,” I said. “She’s still at Celia’s. She’s agreed to repay the twenty-one hundred.”
“Does she understand why I don’t want to see her?”
“I think she’s beginning to. You don’t need to meet her to help her understand.”
Emma exhaled.
“I was afraid you’d ask me to forgive her before I moved.”
“I won’t.”
That weekend, I packed Rachel’s sewing machine and some of Emma’s childhood keepsakes for storage. Emma wanted to choose what to take to Richmond later. I sent photographs of each box so she knew where everything was.
While I worked, I found a small notebook Rachel used to keep beside the machine. Most pages held measurements and fabric lists. On the last page, in handwriting I knew better than my own, she had written: Ask Emma what she wants before telling her what she needs.
I sat on the floor and stared at it.
Rachel had written that when Emma was thirteen and wanted to paint her bedroom dark blue. I had said no because I thought she would regret it. Rachel had asked her to show us the color. Emma chose one wall instead of four, and she loved it for years.
I had forgotten the lesson.
When Emma came the next day to look through her things, I gave her the notebook.
“She would want you to have this,” I said.
Emma read the last page.
“Mom wrote that about me?”
“Yes. She was better at pausing before she answered.”
Emma ran her thumb over the words.
“I miss her.”
May you like
“I do too.”
We sat on the sewing-room floor for a long time. I did not ask her to come home. Before she left, she took the notebook and the drawings for her new job.
