She replied in less than a minute.
Only if you’re sure.
I looked at that message for a long time.
Only if you’re sure.
Six months ago, my daughter wouldn’t have asked. She’d have assumed. Or she’d have let someone else decide for her.
Now she was asking.
Not because she didn’t trust me.
Because she finally understood that the door was mine to open.
I’m sure, I wrote back. I’ll tell you the code myself. In person. Just you.
Deal, she wrote. Love you.
Love you more.
EPILOGUE
Thanksgiving came around again, the way it always does.
For the first time in twenty-eight years, I hosted it in my own house.
Rachel drove up from Louisville with her famous sweet potato casserole. My son, Ben, flew in from Denver with his fiancée, a lovely, quiet young woman named Hannah who brought homemade rolls and immediately started rearranging my spice cabinet alphabetically. Lauren came two days early to help me cook, and we stayed up past midnight peeling potatoes and laughing at old family videos on her laptop.
