Both mattered.
After dinner, I walked Mom back to her room.
Her room.
On the first floor, across from the bathroom, with the window overlooking the garden.
She stopped at the doorway.
“Sara?”
“Yes?”
“You were always going to be all right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Even when you were little, you always figured out what was true and then said it.”
“You do that too.”
“Not like you.”
“You told Gabriel not to do it again.”
“That was easy.”
She smiled faintly.
“What you did tonight took nine years.”
I understood exactly what she meant.
“Goodnight, Mom.”
“Goodnight.”
She went to bed in the room I had promised was hers.
The next morning, I knew she would sit beside the window while I worked in the garden. She would probably tell me I was trimming something incorrectly. Maybe, eventually, she would stop apologizing for giving advice too.
That was my hope.
