“Not tomorrow. Maybe next month.”
For one moment I felt an irrational urge to object.
Our house had been full again.
Coffee in the mornings.
Her shoes beside the door.
Arguments about television.
Her laugh drifting from the kitchen.
I had grown used to having my daughter home.
Then I remembered what I had promised in the hospital.
Her life was hers.
“That’s a nice porch,” I said.
She smiled.
“You’re not going to inspect the foundation?”
“I absolutely am.”
“Dad.”
“I’m a carpenter. I have standards.”
The landlord turned out to be a retired teacher named Mrs. Hanley who lived next door.
The house was small but bright.
Two bedrooms.
Hardwood floors.
A kitchen with yellow cabinets.
Marcy stood by the living room window.
Sunlight fell across her face.
“What do you think?” Ellen asked.
Marcy looked around.
“I think I could be happy here.”
Those words stayed with me.
