Chapter 8
The library opened in March.
Emma wore a dark green dress and kept checking whether the children could reach the shelves. Her supervisor tried to pull her into a photograph; she asked for the rest of the team to join her.
I stood near the back with Maya. We watched Emma explain the project to a group of families without once looking down at her notes.
“She’s changed,” Maya said.
“She’s become more herself.”
After the speeches, Emma brought me to a corner where a child sat reading.
“This was my idea,” she whispered. “A quiet spot without feeling hidden.”
Rachel used to find corners like that whenever she took Emma to a library. I wondered whether Emma had been thinking of her when she designed it.
“Your mom would have sat here,” I said.
“I know.”
Emma touched the back of the little chair. Her eyes shone, but she was smiling.
We had lunch afterward. Maya left us alone when Emma said she wanted to talk to me.
“The program offered me another year,” she said.
“That’s wonderful.”
“It might turn into a permanent position.”
“Do you want it?”
“I do. I kept waiting to hear what you thought before I could feel happy.”
“You can feel happy now.”
She laughed softly.
“I know. I’m working on that.”
Then she took an envelope from her bag.
“Vanessa’s letter. The counselor mailed it after I asked for it.”
“You don’t have to tell me what it says.”
“I want to.”
Vanessa had written about the money, the sewing room, and the interview letter. She had not blamed Emma for leaving or asked her to come back. She had said she understood that repayment could not restore the interview she had hidden.
“I believe she’s sorry,” Emma said.
“That’s yours to decide.”
“I don’t want to see her. I might someday. I don’t know.”
“You can take as long as you need.”
Emma folded the envelope.
“Was it hard for you to hear her admit everything?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever wish I hadn’t told you?”
“No. I wish I’d made it easier for you to tell me sooner.”
The divorce process was underway. Vanessa and I were dividing property with our lawyers’ help. We disagreed about several things, but neither of us tried to involve Emma.
I had once imagined that leaving Vanessa would instantly make the house feel welcoming to my daughter again. Emma had told me she might never live there. I was learning to accept that a home could be part of our family without being where we both slept.
A month later, I found a box of Rachel’s fabrics in the attic. I called Emma before moving it. She asked me to bring it on my next visit.
When I arrived, she spread the fabric across her living-room floor.
“She bought this when I was little,” she said, holding a piece printed with yellow flowers. “She promised we’d make curtains.”
“We never did.”
“We could.”
I laughed.
“You’ve seen my sewing.”
“I’ve seen mine. We’ll need help.”
Mrs. Patel, an older neighbor in Emma’s building, knew how to sew. Emma invited her over the following Saturday. I cut fabric under supervision while Emma worked at the machine. We made uneven curtains that fit her kitchen window.
“They’re crooked,” I said when we hung them.
“They’re ours,” Emma replied.
Mrs. Patel looked at us both.
“They keep the afternoon sun out. That’s what you asked them to do.”
Before I left, Emma stood in the doorway with the yellow flowers behind her.
“I used to think being independent meant needing nobody,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.”
At home, Vanessa had left a final box of her belongings on the porch for a mover to collect. She had asked before arranging it. I went inside and sat at the dining table.
May you like
It was the place where I had found the seven hundred dollars. For a long time, I had avoided sitting there alone.
I thought of Emma in her green dress, talking about a library she helped make. I thought of Rachel’s old fabric hanging in her kitchen. The table no longer held every memory of what I had missed. It reminded me to answer when Emma called and to ask questions I was willing to hear answered.
