Better.
They walked to the gate.
The gate was open.
They still stopped outside.
That mattered.
Mom called:
“Stacey?”
I approached.
Not too close.
Dad looked beyond me.
At the greenhouses.
Rows of dogwoods.
Fruit trees.
The sign with Grandma's name.
His face crumpled.
“This was Mom's land.”
I nodded.
“She bought it for me.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Mom whispered:
“May we come in?”
There it was.
The question I had waited my entire adult life to hear.
Not:
Move your car.
Not:
Be gone by eleven.
Not:
Don't embarrass us.
Not:
Disappear.
May we come in?
I looked at Ruth.
She shrugged.
“Your gate.”
Exactly.
I turned back to my parents.
“Yes.”
Mom started crying.
I held up one hand.
“For an hour.”
She nodded immediately.
“Of course.”
“Not the office.”
“Okay.”
“Not the house.”
“Yes.”
“If I ask you to leave, you leave.”
Dad's eyes filled.
“Yes.”
No argument.
