“You would not be crowding me,” he said, placing two white ceramic bowls on the counter with a quiet tap. “You would be integrating. A single person living alone is highly inefficient.”
The pasta was dry, tossed only with oil and a sprinkle of coarse salt, and he served it in equal portions.
“I will need to talk to Emma,” I said, lifting my fork. “I have been staying with her and Tom for three months now.”
“Of course,” he said, chewing slowly. “But a decision should be based on logic, not family sentiment.”
The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the hum of the small refrigerator in the corner.
Two nights later, the floor of my daughter’s spare bedroom was covered in flat, brown cardboard boxes. I taped the bottom of the largest one, the sound of the packing tape loud in the small apartment.
Emma sat on the edge of the mattress, twisting a strand of her dark hair around her index finger.
“You do not have to do this, Mom,” she said, her voice rising to that high, thin register it took on when she was anxious. “You can stay here as long as you need to.”
“We are on top of each other, sweetheart,” I said, folding a heavy wool sweater. “And Tom needs his study back to prepare his lessons.”
“Tom has never complained once,” she said, looking toward the closed door. “He told me yesterday he is happy to have you.”
“Tom is a very polite man,” I said. “But he is a high school history teacher who needs to grade papers in peace, not on the couch.”
“But Robert’s place is so far,” Emma said, her eyes tracing the floral pattern on her rug. “We won’t see you every day.”
“It is only Park Slope,” I said, placing the sweater into the box. “It is thirty minutes on the subway.”
“I just feel like you are rushing into this because of us,” she said.
She reached out and touched my wrist, her hand warm.
“I am fifty-four, Emma,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “I know how to share a home, and Robert is a very steady man.”
On Sunday morning, the back of Tom’s station wagon was empty, and my three suitcases sat in Robert’s hallway. The air in the brownstone smelled of lemon wax and old paper.
