"She doesn't have to choose between us."
Tears filled her eyes.
For a moment, she couldn't speak.
Then she whispered, "You really believe that?"
I smiled gently.
"Yes."
She looked toward the kitchen.
The old stove.
The enormous pot.
The place where her daughter once hid.
Then she said something unexpected.
"Annie told me about your Sunday dinners."
I laughed softly.
"Did she?"
The woman nodded.
"She says you feed everyone."
"We try."
She hesitated.
"I used to cook."
I looked at her.
"Before everything happened."
She lowered her eyes.
"My mother taught me."
I waited.
Then she looked up.
"Would you ever need another pair of hands?"
The question surprised me.
I studied her face.
She wasn't asking to take over.
She wasn't asking for control.
She was offering help.
I thought about the long table.
The growing number of guests.
The work that often left me exhausted by evening.
Then I smiled.
"Can you peel potatoes?"
She laughed through tears.
"Very well."
"Then perhaps you should come on Sunday."
The woman covered her mouth.
I smiled.
"But there's one rule."
She looked at me.
"What?"
"No arguing over who makes the best dumplings."
She laughed.
A genuine laugh.
For the first time since meeting her, I saw something of the young woman William must once have loved.
Not the deception.
Not the bitterness.
Simply a person.
Wounded.
Imperfect.
Trying to rebuild.
She nodded.
"Agreed."
When William returned, I told him about the visit.
He listened quietly.
Then looked toward me.
"You invited her?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
He sat down.
For several moments, he seemed uncertain what to say.
Then he asked, "Why?"
I considered.
"Because Annie loves her."
He looked toward the window.
"And?"
"Because I think she wants to make something better of what's left."
William nodded slowly.
He was not immediately comfortable.
I understood.
His wounds were his own.
I had no right to decide when he should forgive someone.
So I took his hand.
"You don't have to pretend everything is resolved."
He looked toward me.
"I know."
"And you don't have to stay in the kitchen the whole time if it's too difficult."
He smiled faintly.
"You think I'm going to abandon Sunday dinner?"
I laughed.
"Not when there's chicken."
He squeezed my hand.
Then grew serious.
"Rose."
"Yes?"
"Thank you for thinking of Annie."
I leaned against him.
"She's part of our family."
He nodded.
"Yes."
Then he looked toward the old stove.
"And so are you."
I smiled.
"I certainly hope so."
He laughed.
Then kissed my forehead.