The townhouse had a blue door.
That was the first thing I liked.
Not the location.
Not the price.
Not the square footage.
The blue door.
I stood on the sidewalk in Savannah and felt ridiculous.
Marjorie had driven down again, partly to see me and partly because she now considered herself qualified to judge Southern real estate after owning a Charleston bungalow for six days.
“It needs repainting,” she said.
“Don't touch the door.”
“I hate it.”
“I know.”
“Excellent. Buy it.”
The agent unlocked the house.
Inside, it was smaller than the condominium I had lost.
Older too.
The floors creaked.
One upstairs window stuck halfway.
The kitchen cabinets needed refinishing.
But the rooms felt human-sized.
Not designed for entertaining twenty people.
Not designed around a family I might occasionally host.
Designed for one person who lived there every day.
Me.
That distinction affected me more than I expected.
The living room had built-in shelves.
I immediately pictured Ernest's books.
Then corrected myself.
My books.
Some of his.
Not all.
The second bedroom faced the courtyard.
Enough room for Maya.
But it did not look like a child's permanent bedroom waiting for her arrival.
Good.
The study was tiny.
Perfect for photographs.
Paperwork.
Maybe writing.
I had no idea what I would write.
The possibility still pleased me.
Upstairs, Marjorie opened a closet.
“You own too many clothes.”
“You have not seen my clothes.”
“I know you.”
“That is increasingly irritating.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“You like this one.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“More than the last.”
“Can you afford it?”
“Yes.”
“Any competing offers?”
“One.”
I sighed.
“Of course.”
The agent explained that the sellers were not choosing until Monday.
Three days.
No artificial noon deadline.
Time.
That mattered.
We walked through twice.
Then a third time.
In the courtyard, a small magnolia tree leaned toward one wall.
The previous owner had left a stone bench.
I sat.
The city sounded near but not loud.
Footsteps.
A car.
Birds.
Somewhere, someone practicing trumpet badly.
I smiled.
“I can hear you deciding,” Marjorie said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m considering.”
“Same face.”
She sat beside me.
“What's stopping you?”
“Austin.”
“Of course.”
“I don't mean because he wants me in Atlanta.”
“Then?”
“If I buy this, I’m choosing a place four hours from Maya.”
“Correct.”
“I missed almost a year.”
“Also correct.”
“She grew while I was gone.”
“That was rude of her.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
I looked at the tree.
“What if choosing what I want means missing things?”
Marjorie’s expression softened.
“It will.”
That was not comforting.
“You could live across the street and still miss things.”
“Not as many.”
“Probably not.”
“So?”
“So decide what kind of grandmother you want to be.”
I knew the answer.
Present.
But presence had once become availability.
Availability became duty.
Duty became resentment.
Could presence have another form?
I asked the agent for the disclosure documents.
Then returned to Atlanta without making an offer.
Maya came to my apartment after school.
She dropped her backpack and immediately asked, “Did you buy it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m deciding.”
“Dad showed me pictures.”
Of course he had.
“What do you think?”
“I like the blue door.”
I laughed.
“Finally, someone with taste.”
“Can I paint my room?”
“You don't have a room.”
Her face fell.
“I mean if you stay.”
“There will be a guest room.”
“That's my room.”
“No. It is the guest room.”
“For me.”
“For guests.”
“Who else?”
“Marjorie.”
“She has a house.”
“Excellent point.”
Maya climbed onto the sofa.
“So Savannah is four hours.”
“Approximately.”
“That’s far.”
“Yes.”
“Why don't you live here?”
There it was.
The question I had expected from Austin but got from her instead.
“I might.”
“Do you like Atlanta?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like Savannah more?”
“I don't know.”
She considered.
“Does Savannah need you?”
The question startled me.
“What?”
“Dad says you shouldn't live places because people need you.”
I stared.
My private family revolution had apparently become educational curriculum.
“Your father said that?”
“Kind of.”
“What exactly?”
“He said Grandma gets to pick where she lives.”
That sounded better.
“Your father is right.”
Maya frowned.
“Then pick here.”
I laughed softly.
“You’re persuasive.”
“Please?”
I looked at her.
That word.
Not manipulation.
A child wanting her grandmother nearby.
I felt the pull instantly.
“I want to be close to you.”
“Then be close.”
Simple.
Adults made everything difficult.
“Maya.”
“What?”
“If I live somewhere else, do you think that means I love you less?”
She hesitated.
“A little.”
The answer hurt.
“Why?”
“Because you'd rather be there.”
I sat beside her.
“That makes sense.”
She looked surprised.
“You're not going to say I'm wrong?”
“No.”
“Am I?”
“Partly.”
She leaned against me.
I continued.
“When you choose Sophie for a sleepover instead of another friend, does that mean you hate the other friend?”
“No.”
“Does choosing soccer mean you love science less?”
“I don't love science.”
“Bad example.”
She smiled.
“People choose one thing without rejecting everything else.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
I would not lie.
“If I choose Savannah, I'm choosing a place I like. I'm not choosing it instead of you.”
“But you'll miss stuff.”
“Yes.”
“My birthday?”
“No.”
“School things?”
“Some.”
“Soccer?”
“Some.”
She looked down.
“And if you live here?”
“I'll still miss some.”
“Less.”
“Yes.”
I let that remain true.
Then she asked, “What do you get in Savannah?”
The question was remarkable.
Not what does Savannah have.
What do you get?
I thought carefully.
“A place that's mine.”
“You could have that here.”
“Yes.”
“Then what else?”
“Space.”
She frowned.
“From us?”
“A little.”
Her expression hurt me.
I touched her hand.
“Not because I don't love you.”
“Then why?”
“Because I spent a long time being very close to everyone and forgetting what I wanted.”
“Dad says that too.”
“Your father has become annoyingly educational.”
Maya giggled.
I continued.
“I want to know that when I visit, I'm visiting because I want to. And when you visit me, you're coming because you want to.”
“I would.”
“I know.”
“What if I don't want space?”
“You're eleven.”
“Almost.”
“You get some opinions. Not all.”
She groaned.
Then asked, “Can I have the guest room?”
“While you're there.”
“Can I choose sheets?”
“That seems negotiable.”
She smiled.
Conversation apparently concluded.
That evening, Austin came to collect her.
After she left, he remained at my door.
“She told me.”
“I assumed.”
“She thinks Savannah is stealing you.”
“I gathered.”
Austin leaned against the frame.
“I can tell her it's okay.”
“Don't.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because it isn't entirely okay for her.”
He thought.
“Fair.”
“She wants me here.”
“So do I.”
There it was.
He did not hide it.
I appreciated that.
“Why haven't you said anything?”
“Because you know.”
“Yes.”
“And because I don't want my preference becoming pressure.”
“You can have a preference.”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
He smiled sadly.
“Ten minutes away.”
I laughed.
“At least you're honest.”
“Two blocks was nice.”
“It was.”
“You're leaving the apartment next week.”
“Yes.”
That made the future immediate.
My temporary rental ended soon.
I could extend.
Move into a hotel.
Go to Savannah.
Return briefly to Miami.
Stay with Austin.
Options.
None emergency.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I looked at him.
Months earlier, that had been the question that changed our relationship.
Now he asked again.
“I want Savannah.”
Saying it aloud hurt.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it became real.
Austin absorbed the answer.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
“You're disappointed.”
“Yes.”
“Say more.”
He sighed.
“I imagined Sunday dinner.”
My chest tightened.
“Maya dropping by.”
“Yes.”
“You coming over when you felt like it.”
“Yes.”
“Me complaining you were too close.”
“Probably.”
We smiled.
“I imagined making up for the year you were gone.”
There it was.
I stepped toward him.
“Austin.”
“I know we don't have to.”
“We can't.”
He looked at me.
“We can't make up a year.”
“I know.”
“We can only have whatever comes next.”
He nodded.
“I hate that.”
“So do I.”
Then I said, “Four hours isn't another continent.”
“No.”
“You'll visit.”
“Yes.”
“I'll visit.”
“Yes.”
“Maya can stay.”
“She'll live there all summer if you let her.”
“I will not.”
He smiled.
Then hugged me.
“Make the offer.”
I pulled back.
“You mean it?”
“No.”
We both laughed.
He continued.
“But make it.”
The next morning, I called the agent.
I offered slightly below asking.
Not because Iris advised it.
Not because Austin did.
Because the inspection would likely show work and I wanted room in the budget.
The sellers countered.
I countered again.
By Sunday evening, we had an agreement.
Contingent on inspection.
Closing in five weeks.
I stared at the signed contract.
A home.
Possibly.
Mine.
My phone rang.
Maya.
“Dad told me.”
“He shouldn't have before the inspection.”
“What's inspection?”
“Someone checks whether the house is secretly falling apart.”
“Is it?”
“I hope not.”
“So you bought Savannah?”
“I might.”
She was quiet.
“Are you mad?”
I asked.
“No.”
That sounded exactly like yes.
“Maya.”
“I’m sad.”
“Okay.”
“You still want me there?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe a week in summer. Maybe holidays. Maybe weekends when it works.”
“Can I choose the guest-room sheets?”
“Yes.”
“Purple?”
I hated purple.
“Yes.”
“With stars?”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
“Can Biscuit come?”
“No.”
“What about Pepper?”
“Absolutely not.”
That made her laugh.
Then she said, “Grandma?”
“Yes?”
“I don't think you're choosing us less.”
My eyes filled.
“What changed?”
“Dad said loving people isn't picking them every time.”
I looked toward the window.
My son.
Teaching his daughter what he had taken forty-one years to learn.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think sometimes you should still pick me.”
I smiled.
“I think so too.”
After we hung up, I called Austin.
“You've been talking.”
“She cornered me.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
“Which truth?”
“That I'd rather have you here.”
I smiled.
“And?”
“That I still think you should go.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
“Thank you.”
“Don't get sentimental.”
“Too late.”
The inspection happened Tuesday.
Roof decent.
Plumbing old but functional.
Electrical panel needed upgrading.
One window required replacement.
Normal problems.
Real house.
I negotiated a repair credit.
Signed again.
Then I sat alone in my temporary apartment with the final paperwork on the table.
For the first time since Ernest died, I had chosen a permanent direction.
Not forever.
Nothing was forever.
But long enough to buy furniture.
Long enough to unpack boxes.
Long enough to plant something in the courtyard.
I touched Ernest’s ring.
Then took it off.
Not because I no longer wanted it.
Because I wanted to look at my hand without it.
The pale indentation remained.
Forty years of marriage did not disappear when the ring came off.
I slid it back on.
My choice.
Not duty.
Later that night, Chloe called.
“Austin told me about Savannah.”
“I assumed.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you.”
“And I hate it.”
I laughed.
“Thank you.”
“Both are true.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“I think if you moved here, part of me would start relying on you again.”
I appreciated the honesty.
“For Maya?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be easy.”
“Yes.”
“And easy is dangerous for us.”
Sometimes.
Not always.
But for this family, perhaps for a while.
“I think four hours may be healthy,” Chloe said.
“So do I.”
Then she smiled.
“But you are taking Maya for a week.”
“We'll negotiate.”
“Good.”
After the call, I opened the Savannah listing one last time.
The blue door waited.
The courtyard.
The shelves.
A home not built around anyone else's emergency.
For the first time, I allowed myself to picture the key in my own hand.
Click here to continue reading: PART 24: As Savannah Became Real, I Opened the Storage Unit Holding Forty Years of Marriage and Faced What I Could Carry Forward
Eight Days After Ernest’s Funeral, My Son Arrived With Two Animals and an Expectation I Would Never Again Accept
Part 23 of 35
