The fading height marks drawn in pencil beside the kitchen doorway.
Small pieces of a childhood she had assumed would wait untouched for her return.
But childhood had continued.
One ordinary day at a time.
Amanda swallowed.
“I missed all of it.”
No one disagreed.
No one rushed to reassure her that it was not too late.
Certain truths deserve to be met with silence.
“May I stay for dinner?” she asked.
The girls looked toward me.
Not because they required permission.
Because for fifteen years, every meal had started with making sure everyone had a place at the table.
I smiled.
“Of course.”
Dinner was simple.
Spaghetti.
Garlic bread.
The final slice of apple pie.
No one changed the meal because Amanda had returned.
Life simply continued.
Lily reached for the parmesan.
“Grandma, can you pass it?”
Grace laughed.
“Not before she tastes the sauce. She always knows if it needs more basil.”
