“Sandra Okafor loved that tree,” he said. “She used to sit under it every morning with her coffee. Said it was the best spot on the whole street.”
“I can see why.”
Walt looked at me sideways. “You planning on putting anything under it?”
I thought about Vanessa standing in my yard with her brass lamp, telling me she’d planned to put a garden by the maple tree.
I thought about Mark, sitting in his truck, believing that half of this place belonged to him.
I thought about all the years I’d spent building a life around someone else’s comfort, someone else’s moods, someone else’s version of the truth.
“A bench,” I said. “Just a bench. Somewhere to sit and have my coffee.”
Walt nodded approvingly. “Good choice.”
Marcus and his father helped me build it the following Saturday. A simple cedar bench with a curved back, set right where the morning sun came through the branches.
