“I’ll ask her,” she said.
My mother got in the shuttle.
She stopped on the step.
She turned around.
“Morgan,” she said. “I’m sorry. About the text. About Linda. About she never does.”
“I know, Mom.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” She stopped. “Yes. I was. I was trying to trick you. Into letting us stay. Because I was scared.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I should have just called,” she said. “In March. And asked.”
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
My father got in last.
He stopped next to me. On the porch.
He looked at the ocean.
He looked at the house.
He looked at me.
“It’s a beautiful house,” he said quietly.
“Thank you.”
“You built it.”
“I did.”
He nodded slowly.
Then he reached into the pocket of his windbreaker.
He took out a folder.
Blue. Plastic. Worn at the corners.
He handed it to me.
