One warm evening, I found her alone on the porch.
No Claire.
No neighbors.
No muffins.
Just Margaret and the roses.
She handed me a mug of black coffee.
Too hot.
Slightly burned.
Perfect.
We watched the sky turn pink behind the rooftops.
After a while, she said, “Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn’t stopped that first day?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“All the time.”
She nodded.
“I used to think I ordered things because I was lonely,” she said. “But that wasn’t the whole truth.”
“What was the whole truth?”
“I was testing the world.”
I looked at her.
“Every package was a question,” she said. “Will anyone notice me? Will anyone look me in the eye? Will anyone wonder why an old woman needs one spool of thread every week?”
Her voice softened.
“For a long time, the answer was no.”
Shame moved through me, though she had forgiven me long ago.
Then she touched my arm.
“But eventually, the answer was you.”
“It should have been more than me.”
“Yes,” she said. “And now it is.”
A few weeks later, Margaret told me Claire had asked if she might still want to move closer one day.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I said maybe.”
I turned, surprised.
She shrugged.
“I’m old, not fossilized. I can change my mind.”
“What made you say maybe?”
She looked toward the roses.
“Because now I know moving would not mean nobody wanted me here. It would just mean another chapter.”
