“Of course,” I answered without hesitation.
She was quiet for a moment before asking one more question.
“And can I come back sometime? When I need to?”
“This will be your family’s house too,” I told her. “Whenever you want.”
She cried a little then.
So did I.
Neither of us ended the call right away.
The paperwork was finalized on a Thursday in January. It wasn’t an especially memorable month, but everything was finally ready. I signed the documents in Gerald’s office, then drove straight to the gray colonial.
I sat in the driveway for several minutes before going inside.
The house belonged to me now.
I say that carefully, because it still belonged to my father in countless ways.
His workshop remained downstairs.
The rooster tiles still covered the kitchen walls.
The library book—now four months overdue—was still sitting where he’d left it because I’d renewed it online twice instead of returning it.
