Emily eventually agreed to meet him with a counselor, but she did not move home.
Jason stopped asking when she would.
One evening, while cleaning paint from a baseboard, he said, “I thought providing meant proving I deserved her.”
“And now?”
“Now I am trying to listen first.”
I kept my house.
That summer, I rented the upstairs room to Priya, a nursing student who studied late, cooked spicy lentils, and called whenever her clinical shifts ran long.
Her rent helped cover repairs.
Her presence filled the empty rooms without taking away my independence.
Jason still visits every Sunday.
At first, guilt gave him a schedule.
Later, he started arriving without tools.
We drink coffee.
Argue about baseball.
He asks before giving advice.
Last Sunday, he stopped beside the pencil marks on the dining room wall.
He touched the oldest one, where Daniel had written his name.
“I forgot this was where you raised me.”
“You remembered eventually.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
I looked at Daniel’s handwriting beside the mark.
“I know,” I said. “Now keep remembering.”
