I smiled.
I got out of bed, made tea, and carried it onto the veranda.
The sky was pale pink.
A neighbor across the way was sweeping her steps.
She looked up.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning.”
“You’re the new owner?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome!”
The word struck me unexpectedly.
Welcome.
I sat down with my tea.
Then I began to cry.
Not because I regretted leaving.
Because nobody had told me to leave the room.
Nobody complained about my breathing.
Nobody asked me to move my chair.
I was sitting in my own home.
And I was allowed to exist.
For the first month, I did very little.
I unpacked slowly.
I walked along the beach.
I explored the market.
I learned my neighbors’ names.
I planted three rose bushes.
One red.
One pink.
One white.
The red was for Arturo.
The pink was for me.
The white was for the peace I hoped our family might eventually find.
Then I began traveling again.
Nothing extravagant.
A weekend in Tagaytay.
A visit to Emma in Cebu.
A short trip to Bohol.
I took photographs.
Tried food I had never ordered before.
Bought a ridiculous sun hat.
Sat in cafés reading books without checking the time.
At seventy, I was rediscovering preferences I had forgotten I was allowed to have.
I liked early mornings.
Quiet music.
Painting, even though I was terrible at it.
Bright colors.
And mangoes eaten directly over the kitchen sink without anyone telling me I was disgusting.
One afternoon, Emma came to visit.
She found me on the veranda wearing a yellow dress.
She stopped.
“Margie?”
I looked up.
“What?”
She laughed.
“You look ten years younger.”
“No.”
She sat beside me.
“Yes.”
I looked toward the garden.
“I don’t think I look younger.”
“Then what?”
I smiled.
“I think I finally look like myself.”
Emma reached for my hand.
We sat there until sunset.
Three months after the move, Lily called.
I was trimming the roses when her name appeared on my phone.
For a moment, I considered letting it ring.
Then I answered.
“Hello, Lily.”
“Mom.”
Her voice sounded tired.
“Hello.”
A pause.
“How are you?”
I stopped cutting.
It was the first time she had asked me that question in months.
“I’m well.”
“The kids miss you.”
“I miss them too.”
“Gabriel keeps asking when we can visit.”
“I’d like that.”
She hesitated.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
My shoulders tightened.
“Yes.”
“Did you really keep all the money from the house?”
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
“I used part of the proceeds to buy my new home. The rest is being managed for my needs and future plans.”
She exhaled.
“So you’re not giving me anything?”
“I’m not discussing an inheritance while I’m alive.”
“Mom, I’m struggling.”
“I know.”
“You have all that money.”