Then she drove away.
I didn’t follow.
***
A week later, I stood outside her new apartment with a cherry pie in my hands.
Out of habit, my hand moved toward my purse for the key that wasn’t there.
I stopped.
Then I knocked.
Then she drove away.
Mom opened the door.
“You know I’d give you a key if you asked.”
“I know.”
She waited.
I smiled. “But I’d rather you decide when you want me here.”
Mom stepped aside.
“You know I’d give you a key if you asked.”
“Then come in.”
I walked past her and looked around at the smaller rooms, the new furniture, and the life she’d chosen for herself.
Then Mom touched my arm.
“Five years from now,” she said, “Ryan gets to read his letter.”
I looked at her.
“And mine?”
“Ryan gets to read his letter.”
“Yours too. And Dad’s.”
My throat tightened.
