of you.
It was like the whole street had seen me for the first time.
Late in the afternoon, Ms. Pearson came down off her porch and crossed the road. She stopped at the bottom of my steps, looking deeply uncomfortable, twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger.
“She talked about you, you know,” she said finally. “Edith did. She said you always waved at her. Even on days you looked like you were carrying the whole world.”
I hadn’t even known her first name was Edith.
“I’m sorry I never came over,” Ms. Pearson said. Then she gave me a short, awkward nod, the kind of nod that costs a proud person something. “If you need a ride to the hospital when the time comes, I’m right across the street.”
“Thank you,” I said. And I meant it.
By sunset, the street had emptied out again.
The
patrol cars were long gone. The neighbors had drifted back inside for dinner. Somewhere down the block, a sprinkler ticked in a slow circle.
I sat on my front steps in the fading light, the air finally cooling, and laid everything out across my lap. The deed with my name on it. The bank’s letter with those three red words. And Mrs. Higgins’ note, the paper already soft from how many times I had unfolded it that day.
Across the yard, her lawn lay neat and even, the rows I had cut still visible in the grass. Her wicker chair sat empty on the porch. Her crossword was still on the little table beside it, half finished, a pencil resting across the page.
My daughter kicked, strong and sure. I rested my hand over the spot.
“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins,” I whispered into the dusk. “I don’t know how I’ll
