I read it until the screen blurred.
Then I called her.
When she answered, neither of us spoke at first.
Finally, I said, “No, sweetheart. Never.”
She started crying.
So did I.
That afternoon, Karen drove Lily to my house.
My granddaughter stood on the porch, tall and nervous, with Helen’s eyes.
I opened the door and saw four stolen years standing in front of me.
She looked past me into the house.
“It smells the same,” she whispered.
I laughed and cried at the same time.
“That’s probably lemon cleaner.”
“No,” she said. “It smells like Grandma’s house.”
I stepped aside.
“It still is.”
Lily walked in slowly, touching the banister, the hallway wall, the old piano nobody played anymore.
Then she saw the pantry door.
The pencil marks were still there.
Brian at seven.
Brian at twelve.
Lily at five.
Lily at eight.
She touched her name.
