She sat at my kitchen table. The same table. I made coffee. She held the mug with both hands, like it was cold out, even though it wasn’t.
“Linden Park called,” she said. “The apartment’s ready January third. One bedroom. A little kitchen. A window that faces the park.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“It’s very small.”
“Small is fine,” I said. “Small is easy to keep clean.”
She looked up sharply. Like she thought I was making fun of her.
I wasn’t. Not entirely.
She looked down at her coffee for a long time.
“I said things to you,” she said finally. “About how you kept this house.”
“You did.”
“I’d stand at that sink and think, she doesn’t even care. She’s never here. If this were my house I’d—” She stopped. “And all that time, you were the one paying for it. With your feet. And I was paying a little, in secret, and calling it mine.”
