Thomas stared at the ground.
Serena said nothing.
The lead mover approached.
“We’re ready, Mrs. Bennett.”
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
I picked up my purse.
Thomas called after me.
“Mom.”
His voice broke around the word.
I turned.
He looked frightened.
For once, there was no calculation on his face.
“Where exactly are you going?”
“Somewhere peaceful.”
“Will you call me?”
“When I’m ready.”
I got into my car.
Serena stood beside the curb with the unsigned title transfer in one hand and the crumpled closing statement in the other.
I did not look in the rearview mirror when I drove away.
There was nothing behind me that required my attention.
The drive west took most of the day.
By evening, mountains had replaced the familiar Idaho hills, and the air carried that wet evergreen smell I remembered from trips Gerald and I had taken through Washington.
The following morning, I boarded a ferry out toward the San Juan Islands simply because I could.
I stood on the upper deck holding coffee while wind pulled at my coat. Forested islands moved past in the distance, dark against the silver water.
Gerald had loved places like this.
He used to stand at ferry railings with both hands in his pockets, looking absurdly content.
“We should retire somewhere around here,” he once told me.
“We’d be bored in a week.”
“Speak for yourself.”
I smiled at the memory.
Maybe he had known me better than I knew myself.
My new apartment overlooked a stretch of garden leading toward the water. From my balcony, I could see gulls moving above the trees and, on clear mornings, distant islands.
The first morning there, I woke before sunrise.
For several seconds, I did not remember where I was.
Then I saw the boxes.
The unfamiliar curtains.
Gerald’s reading chair beside the window.
I made coffee and carried it outside.
My phone showed a voicemail from Thomas.
I almost deleted it.
Instead, I pressed Play.
“Mom.”
He sounded tired.
Not angry.
Not rehearsed.
“Serena got a part-time job at a medical clinic.”
There was a pause.
“We enrolled the girls at the public school. It’s actually… it’s fine. Emma already made a friend.”
Another pause.
“We’re cutting some expenses.”
I could hear him breathing.
“I know that’s probably what we should have done before.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice shook slightly.
“I should’ve stopped the paperwork. I should’ve told Serena no. I should’ve told myself no.”
For the first time, he did not say misunderstanding.
He did not say intention.
He did not explain.
“I miss you, Mom.”
A long silence followed.
“Call me when you’re ready.”
I listened to the message once.
Only once.
Then I drank my coffee.
That morning, I walked through the community garden and found my assigned raised bed. The previous resident had left rosemary, thyme, and several stubborn lavender plants that needed trimming.
I knelt beside them.
The smell of rosemary stayed on my fingers.
Later that morning, I called Thomas.
It was Sunday.
I decided Sundays would be our day.
He answered on the second ring.
“Mom?”
“Hello, Thomas.”
He released a breath.
For fifteen minutes we talked more honestly than we had in years.
The conversation was careful.
Almost formal.
Like two people meeting inside a room after someone had finally removed all the furniture they used to hide behind.
He told me about the girls.
I told him about the apartment.
He said Serena was embarrassed.
I said embarrassment was survivable.
He told me their budget looked frightening without my support.
I told him reality often did at first.
Then he surprised me.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Yes,” I said. “You will.”
He did not ask for money.
I did not offer any.
Before we hung up, I told him the girls could visit in the spring once I had settled in properly.
“I’d love that,” he said.
“So would I.”
After the call, I unpacked the cardboard box marked GARDEN THINGS.
My pruning shears were wrapped inside an old kitchen towel.
I carried them outside.
The morning was cool, but sunlight had begun warming the wooden edge of the raised bed.
I worked for nearly an hour.
Rosemary.
Thyme.
Lavender.
Small things.
Living things.
