Chapter 10
Twenty years after I heard my mother's knock beneath the kitchen floor, I returned to that same house with my own daughter.
Her name was Lily.
She was seven.
The age I still sometimes felt inside when I remembered the basement.
Mom and Dad still lived there.
Older now.
Dad's hair almost completely gray.
Mom claimed his hearing was disappearing because he only responded when she said things he liked.
He claimed selective hearing was a survival skill.
They were happy.
Not fairy-tale happy.
Real happy.
They argued about thermostats.
Forgot anniversaries.
Apologized quickly.
Loved openly.
Lily ran into the kitchen.
“Grandma!”
Mom caught her.
“My favorite person.”
I followed.
“I am standing right here.”
“You had thirty years.”
Dad came from the basement carrying a box.
My body still noticed that doorway.
Even after all this time.
No panic.
Just awareness.
Dad noticed me noticing.
He always did.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
And I was.
The basement had changed completely.
The art room remained.
My old paintings covered one wall.
Dad had never taken them down.
May you like
One was terrible.
A
