I looked down.
Caroline’s voice softened, but only slightly.
“I hated you.”
“I know.”
“I still don’t know what to do with you.”
“That’s fair.”
“But I don’t think you’re pretending anymore.”
I could not answer.
She turned to leave, then paused.
“Her birthday is next Sunday. I’m bringing flowers to the cemetery at ten. If you come, don’t be late.”
Then she walked out.
I was not late.
I brought roses from Evelyn’s garden, with Caroline’s permission.
We stood at the grave together in silence.
The headstone read:
Evelyn Rose Whitmore
Beloved Wife, Aunt, Friend
She Loved What Was Broken Back To Life
I stared at that last line until my vision blurred.
Caroline said, “She chose it herself.”
Of course she had.
One year after the funeral, I moved out of the garage.
Not because Caroline forced me.
Because I was ready.
