Then weekend breakfasts.
Then my school events.
She helped me choose shoes for the winter formal because Dad thought every pair looked identical.
She drove me to Grandma Pearl’s once when Dad got stuck at work.
She learned I hated mushrooms.
She remembered.
At first, Grandma Pearl liked her too.
Or at least Grandma did not object.
That was practically endorsement.
There were small moments.
I see them differently now.
Once, while we were decorating for Christmas, Renee held Mom’s blue heart ornament.
“This is pretty.”
“My mom made it.”
Her hand paused.
“Oh.”
She placed it back.
Then said:
“You have a lot of your mother’s things.”
I nodded.
She smiled.
“That's good.”
Nothing more.
Another time, she and Dad were discussing repainting the bedroom they would eventually share if they married.
Renee suggested removing one framed photograph of Mom from the hallway outside.
Dad said no.
Not angrily.
Just no.
Renee smiled.
“Of course.”
But afterward she was quiet.
Again, nothing obvious.
Dad proposed eighteen months after they met.
Before asking Renee, he asked me.
Not permission exactly.
But close.
We were sitting at the neighborhood diner.
“I think I want to marry her.”
I stirred my milkshake.
“Okay.”
“That's all?”
“You already bought ring?”
His eyes gave him away.
I laughed.
“You're terrible at secrets.”
Then he became serious.
“How do you feel?”
“I like her.”
“Not what I asked.”
I looked through window.
“I’m scared things will change.”
“They will.”
I appreciated he did not lie.
“But I need you to know something.”
“What?”
“This is still your home.”
“Always.”
“No marriage changes that.”
I nodded.
He held out his pinky.
I stared.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“I’m thirteen.”
“You're twelve.”
“Almost thirteen.”
“Pinky.”
I rolled my eyes and hooked mine around his.
He smiled.
“You're stuck with me.”
I believed him.
I still believe he meant it.
The wedding was small.
Grandma Pearl attended.
She wore plum.
I wore navy.
Renee’s two children from her first marriage were there.