Chapter 12: The Soft Ask
In early summer Savannah asked, through Christopher, whether she could walk through the rose garden “for Mom’s birthday memory”—her mother, Christopher’s first wife, who had loved gardens and had died when Savannah was twelve.
I considered the request longer than a simple yes or no. A garden is not a guest room. A walk is not a suitcase. I said yes to thirty minutes on a Saturday when I would be home, Christopher present, no Derek, no lists, no reinterpretation of the visit as a foot in the door. Marjorie, consulted out of habit, said the risk was emotional, not legal, if I kept the terms clear. I kept the terms clear in a short email. Savannah agreed in one line.
May you like
She arrived on time, hands empty. We walked the rows without theater. She named a yellow rose her mother had liked; I said the bush had been replaced twice since and the name was the only continuous thing. She almost smiled. At the gate she said, “I hated you for the letter.” I said, “I know.” She said, “The list was too much.” I said, “Yes.” Nothing hugged the moment into a false reconciliation. She left. Christopher closed the gate. I watered the bed she had stood beside until the soil darkened evenly.
That night he asked whether I was all right. I said I was accurate, and accuracy was better than the old warmth that had cost me a pantry shelf. He nodded. We slept without the guest-room door needing to mean anything.
