Chapter 10
By spring, the sweet peas covered Lily’s fence.
Ella cut a few for the kitchen table every Sunday. Oliver planted strawberries nearby and checked them each morning, impatient for the first red one.
Daniel kept his promise about the house. He hired help so I could spend my days as I chose. Some mornings I went to the greenhouse. Others I stayed in bed with a book until the children came looking for me.
I loved being able to answer, “I’ll be down soon,” and know they would still be there when I was ready.
The divorce and the remaining financial matters were settled over the winter. Bianca repaid what the final accounting showed she owed. The agreement with the developer was gone, and the trustee confirmed again that Lily’s garden would remain with the children’s property.
Nora came to tell us in person. Ella made her walk through the greenhouse before she would let her leave.
“I knew it was staying,” Ella said, opening the door. “I just wanted you to see the flowers.”
Nora admired every row.
Oliver showed her the strawberries, though they were still green. Daniel stood beside him with soil on his sleeves. He had learned which plants needed shade and which ones Oliver had accidentally watered twice.
There were still difficult days. A sharp voice in a shop once made Oliver grab my hand. Ella disliked seeing Bianca’s name on a letter, even when Nora explained it was only paperwork.
When that happened, we stopped and listened. We let the children ask what they needed to ask. Daniel no longer waited for their fear to become impossible to ignore.
One evening, Ella brought him Lily’s green notebook.
“Can we read some of it together?” she asked.
He sat with her at the kitchen table. Oliver pulled up a chair, and I joined them with four mugs of warm milk.
Daniel read about the year Lily’s apple trees first bore fruit. Then he found a page about Ella refusing to wear shoes for an entire summer. Ella protested that she could not have been that stubborn.
“I remember,” I said.
Oliver laughed so hard he tipped against Daniel’s shoulder.
A few pages later, Daniel reached an entry about himself. Lily had written that he had stayed up half the night painting wooden stars for the nursery ceiling. He read slowly, his voice catching.
“I forgot she wrote that down,” he said.
Ella touched his sleeve.
“You can miss her with us.”
Daniel put an arm around each child.
“I do,” he said. “Every day.”
I looked at the three of them and thought about how much had been hidden by everyone trying to manage grief alone. Lily had left them memories they could share. At last, they were sharing them.
When summer came, Oliver asked to use the pool again.
Daniel and I exchanged a glance. Oliver saw it.
“We can go to the community pool,” he said quickly.
“This is your home,” I told him. “You can swim here.”
I needed a moment before saying it, but I meant it. Daniel arranged for a new safety gate and made sure the children knew the rules. On the first warm Saturday, I sat in a chair beside the water while he swam with them.
Ella climbed out and came over to me.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m right here,” I said.
She sat beside me until Oliver called her back. Then she ran and jumped in, sending water over Daniel’s face. His surprised shout made both children laugh.
I stayed in my chair. The sound of their laughter carried across the terrace. After a while, I stopped watching the exact place where I had held the edge and watched them instead.
That night we ate supper outside. Oliver announced that one of his strawberries was nearly ripe. Ella said he had been announcing that for five days.
Daniel raised his glass.
“To the gardener who taught us patience.”
“Grandma?” Oliver asked.
“I think he means you,” I said.
“I’m very patient,” Oliver replied, and Ella nearly fell off her chair laughing.
After dinner, Daniel took the plates inside. I stood beneath the terrace lights with the children on either side of me. The greenhouse windows glowed at the far end of the garden.
Ella slipped her hand into mine.
“Do you remember when I asked if Dad would still listen the next day?”
“I remember.”
“He does now.”
“Yes,” I said. “He does.”
Oliver reached for my other hand. His palm was warm and sticky with strawberry juice from the berries he had persuaded Daniel to buy while he waited for his own.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked.
“I will.”
“And the day after?”
“As many days as I can.”
Daniel came back through the kitchen door and heard him.
“Grandma gets to choose where she lives,” he said. “And we love having her here.”
I looked at my son-in-law. He had learned to speak to the children plainly, even when an answer mattered so much it frightened him. I squeezed Ella’s hand.
May you like
I could feel the night air on my face. I could hear Oliver planning breakfast and Ella reminding him to leave some strawberries for everyone else. When we went inside, Daniel held the door while the children ran ahead.
I followed them into the bright kitchen, loved and certain I could stay.
