My Son and His Fiancée

She didn’t name me. She didn’t have to.

My neighbor, Carol, screenshots things and texts them to me without commentary, which is its own kind of commentary.

I didn’t respond to any of it.

I’ve learned, at 61, that some silences are the most honest thing you can offer.

I didn’t respond to any of it.

Then, one Thursday afternoon, I drove out to the house.

I don’t go as often as I should.

It’s 40 minutes from my apartment, and some visits feel more like tending grief than tending a house. But something pulled me that day, and I’ve learned not to argue with that particular feeling.

I hadn’t planned to be there long. An hour, maybe. Check the windows; make sure nothing has shifted since my last visit.

I hadn’t planned to be there long.