My little house on Maplewood Avenue isn’t what it used to be. The wallpaper in the living room has faded over thirty years, and the wooden porch steps creak louder each spring.
George, my husband, was always going to fix them, but never got around to it before his heart attack.
Eight years have passed, and I still talk to him sometimes in the mornings, telling him the news as if he’s just gone out to the garden and will be back soon.
This is the house where my children, Wesley and Thelma, grew up. Everything here remembers their baby steps, their laughter, and their fights.
Now it seems like those happy, noisy days never happened.
Thelma comes in once a month, always in a hurry, always looking at her watch.
Wesley shows up more often, but only when he needs something. Usually money, or a signature on some paperwork. Every time he swears he’ll pay it back soon, but in fifteen years he’s never paid it back.
Today is Wednesday, the day I usually bake blueberry pie. Not for me, because I can’t eat that much on my own. It’s for Reed, my grandson—the only one in the family who visits me without an ulterior motive.
