That boy had stood in my bedroom and told me to go away so he could have my money. I called Dorothy. I told her I needed a few days. ‘Come stay with me,’ she said immediately. I packed a small bag, not the brown suitcase, something smaller, something that was mine. And I walked next door to Dorothy’s house, where she had made tea, and left the good chair open for me.
and I sat down in it and let myself be for the first time since this had all begun, simply tired. I spent three days at Dorothy’s. I read. I slept. I ate her cooking, which was better than mine and always had been. I did not check my phone every hour. I allowed myself to feel the grief for the son I had believed in for the decade of goodwill I had extended that had apparently been received as weakness.
And then I set it down the way you set down a heavy bag at the end of a long walk. Not because the walk is over, but because your hands need to be free for what comes next. On the fourth morning, I went home. My hydrangeas had already begun to recover. They are resilient plants. Derek called me on a Thursday evening, a week, almost to the hour after the dispute had been filed.