My hands shook.
“Daniel, I’m 56.”
“And I’m 58! We’re right on time, Margie.”
I laughed. Cried. Then nodded so hard that the porch light blurred.
“Yes.” The word barely made it out. “Yes!”
She laughed. Loud, sharp, the kind of laugh that scraped.
Daniel slid the ring on, then kissed my knuckles like they were something holy.
For the first time in decades, I felt the ground tilt toward something good. I didn’t know yet that one phone call to my sister was about to test every bit of joy I had just dared to feel.
***
The night I called Diane to share the engagement news, I sat at my kitchen table with my hand still warm from where Daniel had slipped the ring on my finger an hour earlier.
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