eyed me suspiciously.
“Why?”
“So my son can visit.”
Her expression softened.
“But only when I invite him.”
We both laughed.
Three weeks later, I sold the old house.
The money went into an account under my name alone.
I bought a small white cottage near the water.
It had a porch.
A garden.
Two rocking chairs.
And a quiet corner for Ernest’s photograph.
I wasn’t replacing him.
I was making space for him.
One Sunday afternoon, someone knocked.
I knew who stood outside before opening the door.
Austin was
