“We’d want to start the transition in the fall. August or September. That gives you time to clear out the guest rooms. I can talk to a contractor about opening the back wall, maybe converting the sun porch into a family room. We’d preserve the character, of course.”
Of course.
Megan touched my hand again. “Mom, it would be good for all of us. You wouldn’t be alone anymore.”
I looked at her hand. My daughter’s hand. The same hand that had once reached for mine crossing parking lots. The same hand I had held when she cried after her first heartbreak. I loved her. That did not mean I had to become the house she wanted to build her future inside.
“That is very thoughtful of you both,” I said.
Andrew smiled.
I set my water glass down.
“There is just one thing.”
His smile paused.
“The house isn’t mine anymore.”
The table went silent.
Megan blinked. “What?”
“I sold it in April. The closing was in May. The new owners have been in about six weeks.”
Andrew opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
“You what?”
“I sold the house.”
Megan’s hand was still on mine. She pulled it back slowly, the way a person pulls away from something hot.
“Mom,” she whispered, “why didn’t you tell us?”
“I am telling you now.”
Andrew’s face rearranged itself quickly, but not quickly enough. I saw the calculation, the disappointment, the effort to choose the right tone.
“Who handled the sale?” he asked.
“A real estate agent.”
“Which agent?”
“That is not important.”
“What did you get for it?”