Ruth laughed.
“What?”
“You looked dramatic locking it.”
“I was having a moment.”
“Customers don't care.”
Of course.
Life.
Always interrupting symbolism.
My parents visited three more times that year.
Never unannounced.
Sometimes I said no.
They accepted it.
Mitch came once.
I almost refused.
Then remembered:
My gate.
My decision.
He walked the property quietly.
At the old pecan tree, he said:
“I signed away this land.”
“Yes.”
“I can't fix that.”
“No.”
“I'm glad you got it back.”
“Me too.”
Then he showed me something.
My yellow notebook.
The one with tally marks.
I stared.
“How do you have that?”
“Mom found it after you left.”
“She kept it.”
My chest tightened.
Every weekend.
Every date.
Eight years of disappearing.
I took it.
Flipped to the final page.
My last tally mark.
Then beneath it, in handwriting that wasn't mine, Mom had written:
She left for good.
No explanation.
