Caleb nodded.
“He's in what you did.”
Mara looked at the riders.
“In what all of you did.”
Caleb stared toward the road.
“He'd tell us we were making too much fuss.”
Mara smiled.
“Definitely.”
Someone began playing guitar.
People started talking.
For the first time since Thomas died, Mara didn't feel that his absence was an empty space.
It was a doorway.
A way for his kindness to continue.
The next morning, Mara woke early.
She made coffee.
Then she stepped outside.
A car was approaching.
She shaded her eyes.
The car stopped.
The driver's door opened.
Emily stepped out.
For several seconds, mother and daughter simply stared at one another.
Then Emily ran.
Mara barely had time to open her arms before her daughter reached her.
They held each other.
Neither spoke.
They didn't need to.
Emily cried first.
“I should have come.”
Mara shook her head.
“I should have called.”
“You're my mother.”
“And you're my daughter.”
Emily pulled back.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Mara looked at the ground.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That I'd become a burden.”
Emily's eyes filled again.
“You were never a burden.”
Behind them, two children jumped out of the car.
“Grandma!”
Mara turned.
Her grandchildren ran toward her.
She dropped to her knees despite the pain and opened her arms.
They crashed into her.
She laughed and cried at the same time.
Caleb watched from the porch.
He quietly stepped away.
Some moments didn't belong to him.
Emily walked through the house.