He shrugged.
“Yeah. That’s what the program said.”
I laughed all the way back to the car.
That notebook mattered more to me than the acquisition number ever would.
Things with Scott improved slowly.
Slowly was important.
He started calling on Sundays without needing anything.
Sometimes he asked about work.
Sometimes he complained about a dishwasher repair.
Once he called because Sophie had a chemistry question.
Then he stopped himself.
“Actually, I’m letting her ask you. And I promise not to complain if the answer takes twenty minutes.”
“It’ll take twelve.”
“It’ll take twenty.”
He was right.
Lauren and I developed a phrase that saved both of us considerable irritation.
“Do you want the long version?”
Sometimes she said yes.
Sometimes she said, “Absolutely not.”
We both got better at laughing.
I did not become less myself.
She did not become more like me.
We simply started giving each other better instructions.
The next December, Scott called three weeks before Christmas.
“We’d like you to come.”
I was quiet.
He rushed forward.
“Lauren’s parents will be there. Sophie wants to make dessert. No pressure. If you want to do something else, I understand.”
I looked at the cedar-and-pine candle on my kitchen counter.
I had bought another without realizing it was the same scent as the previous year.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll come for dinner.”
Not breakfast.
Not the whole day.
Dinner felt right.
On Christmas afternoon, I drove through light rain with a pie on the passenger seat and gifts in the back.
Scott opened the door.
The crooked ceramic snowman was still on the entry table.
Sophie had added a tiny knitted scarf.
“Grandma!”
She came running from the kitchen.