Would I like to come for dinner Sunday?
Come for dinner.
Not cook dinner.
The distinction pleased me more than it should have.
Rebecca changed in quieter ways.
One afternoon, about four months after I moved, she visited alone.
We sat on the patio drinking iced tea.
She looked tired.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How did you know when you were doing too much for everyone?”
I smiled.
“I didn’t.”
She frowned.
“I thought you might have wisdom.”
“I have age. People confuse the two.”
She laughed.
Then became thoughtful.
“I signed up for a photography class.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“It’s Thursday nights.”
“So?”
“Thursday was always one of the nights you watched the kids.”
I heard what she was not saying.
Without me living there, she and Daniel had been forced to rebuild the structure of their family.
