Mara stood on my porch.
Sixty-six years old.
Silver threaded through dark hair.
Thinner than me.
Different glasses.
Same eyes.
Same face arranged by a different life.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Mara said:
“You still bite the inside of your cheek when you’re angry.”
I started crying instantly.
I hated that.
She did too.
Neither of us moved.
Finally I said:
“You look old.”
She laughed through tears.
“So do you.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Still we did not hug.
That felt important.
She looked past me.
“Can I come in?”
I thought about Dad in 1996.
A door.
A decision.
I stepped aside.
“Yes.”
Mara entered.
She stood in my kitchen staring at family photographs.
My wedding.
My daughter.
Lily.
Mom.
Dad.
Then she saw a framed picture of us at thirteen.
She touched the edge.
“You kept that.”
“Of course I did.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“I thought you hated me.”
“I did sometimes.”
She nodded.
“Fair.”
“I also loved you.”
Her mouth trembled.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
That landed.
She sat down.
So did I.
