Then I thought of New Year’s Eve.
The glittering gift bags.
The empty space under the tree.
My children’s faces.
My own voice saying, Never invite us again.
At the time, I thought I was ending a family.
But I had only ended the version that required my children to disappear.
“No,” I told Emma. “It’s not the ending.”
She looked up.
“What is it?”
I dried my hands and tapped her locket gently.
“It’s the part where the right people finally know where to find us.”
In July, the old house sold.
Not to Brent. Not to some developer who wanted to flatten the orchard. It sold to a young family with three children, two dogs, and no interest in the back acre because Rose House was already legally separate. My father used his share to settle debts and keep his apartment. My mother moved into a small place two streets away from Aunt Denise, where she began volunteering at a library because, as Emma said, “books are good practice for listening.”
