She touched one tiny sneaker with her fingertip. “No one ever kept anything for me.”
The first weeks were messy. Catherine checked the locks twice and slept with a lamp on.
Sometimes she snapped, “Don’t hover,” and I backed off, then cried in the laundry room where she couldn’t hear.
On her next birthday, we bought two cupcakes.
We rebuilt in small things: tea on the porch, quiet walks, photo albums only when she asked.
One night, Catherine stared at a picture of herself at three and said, “I don’t remember your voice the way I wanted.”
“Then we’ll make new memories. As many as you want.”
On her next birthday, we bought two cupcakes.
Catherine lit two candles and said, “One for who I was, one for who I am.”
We sat together in the rocking chair, knees bumping, and the room finally felt like a room again.
