Some argued about who had eaten the final piece of cake.
The kitchen filled with noise.
Easy noise.
Family noise.
And I stood in the middle of it holding Mara’s wedding ring.
For the first time in ten years, I was not carrying everything alone.
HOME
I walked to the windowsill.
There was a small glass bowl beside the sink.
I placed Mara’s ring inside it.
Not hidden.
Not locked away.
Not tucked into a drawer for the day we might desperately need money.
Not waiting to be sold.
Just there.
Home.
I looked around our little house on Willow Lane.
Five remarkable young people.
Laughing.
Washing dishes.
Teasing each other.
Living.
