We watched people cross the courthouse square. A woman with a stroller. Two lawyers arguing over coffee.
“I keep thinking about all the times I could have asked him what was wrong,” I said.
Harry rested his forearms on his knees.
“You can wonder about that. Just don’t confuse wondering with responsibility.”
“What if I’d noticed sooner?”
“Maybe you’d have found out sooner that he needed help. Maybe he’d have just lied to you sooner. You can’t know, David. Nobody can.”
I looked at him.
“When did you get so wise?”
“Retirement. Lots of time to think about all the things I should have said twenty years ago.”
He stood up, slowly, and held out his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet.
That summer, Sarah stayed for six weeks. Her office let her work remotely, which meant my kitchen table filled up with her laptop, her coffee cups, and little yellow sticky notes she left for herself everywhere. On the fridge. On the bathroom mirror. One on the coffee maker that just said Call Dad’s doctor.
I’d thought the house was quiet because Margaret was gone. Now I learned how much noise could come back into it.
Sarah took work calls on the porch. Noah helped me rebuild the rope swing, replacing the old frayed ropes with new ones from the hardware store. Lucy planted bee balm in the strip where the truck had ruined Margaret’s flower bed. The concrete company had sent a check for $400 to cover it. Lucy insisted on picking out every plant herself.
Jenna came some weekends. Harry came every Sunday, always carrying something he claimed he’d made too much of. One time it was cornbread so hard we had to soak it in soup to eat it. He ate two pieces anyway and accused the rest of us of having weak teeth.
We laughed until our sides hurt.
Then I went into the mudroom and cried where nobody could see me. Margaret should have been there. The happiness of that afternoon had made her absence sharp all over again.
Sarah found me. She didn’t ask if I was all right. She just stood beside me and looked at the gloves.
“I used to think you kept things because you couldn’t let her go,” she said.
“Maybe I did.”
“I kept one of her scarves. The blue one with the birds. I wore it to every job interview I had after she died.”
I turned to her. “You never told me that.”
“I thought it would upset you.”
“It would have.”
We both smiled, sadly.
“I wish you’d told me anyway,” I said.
Sarah leaned against the doorframe.
“There were a lot of things I didn’t know how to talk about either.”
So we talked. Really talked, for the first time in two years.
We talked about Margaret’s last weeks, when Sarah had been across the country and Michael had handled most of the hospital visits. Sarah told me she’d carried guilt for missing one particular evening, a Thursday, when Margaret had asked for her and she couldn’t get a flight.
I told her Margaret had known exactly why she couldn’t come. That night, Margaret asked me to tell Sarah she was proud of her.
“I told you at the funeral,” I said.
Sarah shook her head slowly. “I don’t remember that.”
Grief had swallowed the words before they ever reached her.
So I said them again. Right there in the mudroom.
“Your mother was proud of you, Sarah. She said so. Those were her words.”
Sarah covered her face with both hands. I held her until we heard Lucy hollering from the kitchen for more lemonade.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.