Emily opened the door. For a second, a dozen expressions crossed her face. Then she forced herself to smile.
“Mother-in-law, come in.”
“Beatrice,” I corrected. “Call me Beatrice.”
She swallowed.
“Beatrice.”
Behind me stood Teresa, Miguel, and Andrea. The kids looked around with wide eyes.
“It’s huge,” Andrea whispered.
I showed them the rooms assigned to them under the agreement. Shared kitchen. Shared living room. Shared dining room.
That first night, Teresa made green chicken enchiladas. The smell filled the house. Emily came downstairs and stopped.
“What’s that smell?”
“Dinner,” Teresa said warmly. “I made extra if you’d like some.”
I could practically see Emily bite back the words this is my kitchen. Instead she said, carefully, “Thank you.”
They all sat down and ate together. Daniel. Emily. Michael. Sarah. Teresa. Miguel. Andrea.
A full table of people learning how to live differently.
The children adapted first, as children always do. Michael and Miguel bonded over video games. Sarah and Andrea became inseparable. There is something merciful about the way children step over wreckage adults create.