Not at strange hours.
She came on Tuesday afternoons when Ava finished school early and wanted help creating decorations for the attic.
Sometimes she brought flowers.
Sometimes cookies.
Sometimes she arrived with nothing more than a book and asked whether she could sit upstairs for an hour while I finished preparing dinner.
I didn't mind.
The house had been too quiet for three years.
When Hannah died, I'd discovered how much sound one person could contribute to a home.
The little songs she sang while folding laundry.
The way she laughed at television programs.
The sound of her opening kitchen cabinets and then complaining that I'd put the mugs in the wrong place.
After she was gone, even the refrigerator seemed loud.
Ava filled some of the silence.
She was wonderful at that.
But children couldn't be expected to replace the companionship adults lost.
I knew that.
I'd simply stopped believing I would ever want it again.
Kelly didn't try to fill Hannah's place.
She never rearranged the kitchen.
Never touched Hannah's belongings without asking.
And never suggested that grief was something I should have finished experiencing by now.
Instead, she became part of the ordinary rhythm of our days.
On Fridays, she'd sometimes bring leftover arrangements from the flower shop.
On Saturdays, she'd help Ava with craft projects.
And occasionally, when my sister came over for dinner, Kelly stayed long enough for all of us to argue about which movie to watch.
My sister noticed the change before I did.
One Sunday, she stood beside me washing dishes.
“She's lovely.”
I glanced toward the living room.
Kelly and Ava were sitting on the floor building a paper greenhouse.
“She's good with Ava.”
My sister gave me a look.
“That's not what I said.”
I frowned.
“What?”
She smiled.
“Nothing.”
Then she rinsed a plate.
After a moment, she asked, “How old is Kelly?”
“Twenty-one.”
My sister became thoughtful.
“And you're forty.”
I sighed.
“I'm aware.”
She nodded.
For several seconds, she didn't speak.
Then she looked toward me.
“Just be careful with everybody's hearts.”
I turned toward her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your daughter loves having her around. Kelly's had a difficult few years. And you've been lonely longer than you'll admit.”
I stared into the sink.
My sister's voice softened.
“I'm not telling you what to feel. I'm telling you not to confuse being needed with being in love.”