Not Italian.
Not expensive.
A simple black machine with one button.
“I thought you should have one that belongs to this house,” she said.
I looked at her.
“That may be the most thoughtful insult to Italian engineering I’ve ever received.”
She laughed.
Daniel carried boxes from the garage.
At one point, I heard him call from the hallway.
“Mom, where do you want Dad?”
I knew exactly what he meant.
Arthur’s photograph.
“Living room.”
Daniel placed it on the mantel.
He adjusted it twice.
Then stepped back.
“Here?”
“Perfect.”
That evening, all four of them stayed for dinner.
I ordered pizza.
Rebecca stared at the boxes piled in my kitchen.
“You’re not cooking?”
“No.”
“You always cook on moving day.”
“I changed my mind.”
She grinned.
