Nearby, Daniel found another photograph.
Thomas and me at the bake sale.
Someone had taken it without us noticing.
On the back, Thomas had written only three words:
There you are.
Then Daniel apologized.
He admitted he had treated me badly.
“I don’t know how to fix it.”
“You don’t fix it in one conversation.”
“What do I do?”
“Start with the next one.”
That afternoon, another discovery changed the house’s future.
The original trust required Claire, Daniel, and me to jointly decide what happened to the property.
Then we found architectural plans Thomas had commissioned six months before his death.
Across the top he had written:
Margaret’s idea—someday, maybe.
The plans converted the enormous house into temporary housing for older widows and widowers who suddenly found themselves alone after losing a spouse.
Years earlier, I had mentioned such an idea once during breakfast.
I had forgotten it.
