Even when frightened and uncertain, part of me had recognized that I deserved truthful answers.
I’d tried to preserve that knowledge for my future self.
On the anniversary of my departure from the Whitcomb house, Dad came for dinner carrying a small cake from our favorite bakery.
Gentle rain fell outside while Lily arranged paper napkins around the kitchen table and proudly announced that our balcony marigolds had grown six new flowers.
After dinner, Dad lifted his teacup.
“To the home you’ve made,” he said.
Lily raised her apple juice.
“And to windows we can see through.”
We laughed, though tears gathered in my eyes as I surveyed our little kitchen.
For years, I’d confused an impressive house with a secure home, believing luxurious furniture, beautiful gardens, and a respected surname could compensate for the uneasiness I lived with daily.
Our apartment was now smaller than the Whitcombs’ dining room, and its cabinets didn’t quite match. Yet Lily could laugh without worrying about someone’s disapproval, and I could ask questions without preparing to apologize.
