“I keep thinking about the people who complained before we did.”
Mom was quiet.
I continued.
“They didn't have the same resources. Some probably didn't know how to preserve evidence or challenge an inaccurate report.”
She nodded.
“And?”
“I wonder whether we could've done more.”
My mother set down her gloves.
“Danielle.”
I looked at her.
“You and your sister didn't create those problems.”
“I know.”
“And you aren't responsible for fixing every one of them.”
I nodded.
She continued.
“You can help where you're able. But don't confuse caring with carrying everything.”
I looked at her.
She smiled gently.
“There's a difference.”
I sat quietly.
Then I nodded.
“I know.”
She reached for my hand.
“Good.”
Across the garden, Dominique called out.
“Mom, this branch is too low.”
Our mother turned.
“Then move the birdhouse higher.”
Dominique sighed.
“That's what I'm trying to do.”
I laughed.
Mom smiled.
“Come on. Your sister needs supervision.”
Over the next year, I began volunteering at the youth center twice a month.
Not as an FBI agent.
Not as a public speaker.
Just as Danielle.
I helped teenagers with reading assignments, college applications, and career questions.
Sometimes I assisted with mock interviews.
Other times I simply listened.
One afternoon, a sixteen-year-old girl named Jasmine asked what I did for work.
“I'm an investigator,” I said.
She looked interested.
“Like a detective?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you carry a badge?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened.
“That's cool.”
I smiled.
“Sometimes.”
She considered that.
“Do people always listen to you?”
I laughed softly.
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“Really?”
“Really.”
She leaned back.
“Then what's the point of having a badge?”
I thought about the question.
“A badge tells people what responsibilities you've been given.”
She nodded.
“But it doesn't make you right.”
Jasmine frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“It means you still have to listen, follow the rules, and explain your decisions.”
She considered that.
Then she smiled.
“Sounds like being a teacher.”
I laughed.
“In some ways.”
She looked toward the classroom.
“My math teacher should hear that.”
I smiled.
“Be nice to your math teacher.”
She rolled her eyes.
We returned to her college application.
But I remembered the conversation.
Jasmine had asked a simple question that went to the heart of everything I'd learned.
Authority was a responsibility.
Not a guarantee of correctness.
One evening after volunteering, I stopped at Pine Hollow for dinner.
Dominique couldn't join me.
Luis was behind the bar.
He smiled when I walked in.
“Just you tonight?”
“Just me.”
He led me to a table.
The bar was quieter than usual.
A baseball game played on television.
A few customers sat near the windows.
I ordered dinner.
While I waited, Luis came over.
“How's the youth center?”
“Good.”
He smiled.
“Angela says you're popular.”
I laughed.
“She's being generous.”
“No, she isn't.”
He sat across from me for a moment.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you ever regret getting involved that night?”
I considered the question.
“I regret that it happened.”
He nodded.
“But?”
“But I don't regret speaking up.”
Luis looked down.
“I used to think I should've just kept my mouth shut.”
I waited.
He continued.
“Before that night, every time Rick came in, I'd tell myself it was easier to give him what he wanted.”
I nodded.
“A lot of people make that calculation when they're worried about consequences.”
He looked at me.
“Yeah.”
He paused.
“But then I started thinking about what kind of place I wanted this to be.”
I looked around the bar.
Families eating.
Friends talking.
Customers relaxing after work.
Luis smiled faintly.
“I wanted people to feel comfortable here.”
I nodded.
“They seem to.”
He looked toward the entrance.
“I'm trying.”
I smiled.
“That matters.”
He stood.
“Dinner's coming.”
“Thanks, Luis.”
He returned to the bar.
I sat quietly.
Then I looked toward the floor.
The small dent was still there.
I smiled faintly.
Luis had never repaired it.
But the room around it had changed.
A few months later, Dominique called me with unexpected news.
“I've been offered a position in Washington.”
I sat up.
“What?”
“A supervisory role.”
I smiled.
“Dominique, that's wonderful.”
“Maybe.”
I frowned.
“Maybe?”
She sighed.
“It's a big decision.”
“Of course.”
“I'd have to move.”
I looked toward the window.
We had lived near each other for most of our adult lives.
Even when our assignments took us to different places, we'd always found ways to stay close.
The idea of Dominique moving several hours away felt strange.
“What do you want?” I asked.
She was quiet.
“I think I want to take it.”
I smiled.
“Then you should.”
She sighed.
“It's not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Mom.”
I understood.
Our mother was getting older.
She remained active, but she had begun needing more help with certain things.
Dominique continued.
“And you.”
I laughed softly.
“I'm not a dependent.”
“I know.”
“Most days.”
She laughed.
I smiled.
“Dominique, you can't turn down an opportunity because you're worried about leaving me behind.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “I know.”
I leaned back.
“Besides, Washington isn't another planet.”
“True.”
“And Mom will love having an excuse to visit.”
Dominique laughed.
“She will.”
I smiled.
“So take the job.”
She hesitated.
Then she said, “I think I will.”
I felt proud.
And a little sad.
Both feelings could exist together.
Dominique moved to Washington that autumn.
We helped her pack.
Our mother supervised.
Naturally.
At one point, Mom stood in Dominique's kitchen holding a stack of plates.
“Why do you have so many?”
Dominique looked offended.
“Because I eat.”
“You live alone.”
“I have guests.”
Mom raised an eyebrow.
“How often?”
I laughed.
Dominique pointed at me.
“Don't encourage her.”
We packed until late afternoon.
Then we ordered pizza and sat on the floor among the boxes.
Mom looked around.
“I'm going to miss this place.”
Dominique smiled.
“Me too.”
I looked at my sister.
“You'll make the new apartment yours.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
We sat quietly.
Then Mom reached for our hands.
“I'm proud of both of you.”
Dominique smiled.
“Thanks, Mom.”
I squeezed her fingers.
She looked at us.
“Your father would've been proud too.”
For a moment, none of us spoke.
Then Dominique smiled.
“He would've complained about how much stuff I own.”
I laughed.
“Definitely.”
Mom nodded.
“And he would've helped carry every box.”
We smiled.
That was exactly right.
After Dominique moved, our lives developed new rhythms.
We spoke on the phone several times a week.
Visited when our schedules allowed.
Spent holidays together.
And continued helping Mom with the garden.
The distance changed our routines.
But it didn't change the relationship.
One evening, Dominique called while I was making dinner.
“How was your day?”