But I drove home sitting a little straighter.
For nearly a year, we hardly spoke.
Every Thursday, another note waited for me.
**The back window sticks. Don’t force it.**
**Susan is visiting. Please prepare the blue bedroom.**
**There’s soup in the refrigerator if you want some.**
I never ate the soup.
I assumed she was simply being polite.
Eventually, I began leaving notes of my own.
**Mrs. W — Out of dish soap. Bought more. Receipt under the salt shaker. — C.**
**Mrs. W — Kitchen faucet is dripping. Probably needs a washer. — C.**
**Mrs. W — Found a pearl earring under the sofa. It’s in the dish by the door. — C.**
Sometimes Margaret was home.
On those days, she would sit quietly reading while I worked.
Once, she asked:
“How is your daughter?”
“She’s good. Fourth grade now.”
“What does she like?”
“She draws houses.”
Margaret looked interested.
“Houses?”
“Floor plans mostly. Where the rooms should go. She says she wants to design houses one day.”
“That’s a good ambition.”
Then she went back to her book.
That first winter, Willa’s school closed because of snow.
I had no one who could watch her.
My mother lived hours away, my friends were working, and my ex-husband was, as usual, “busy.”
So I called Margaret.
“I’m sorry. Would it be all right if I brought Willa tomorrow? She’ll stay quiet. I promise.”
There was a pause.
“Bring her.”
The next morning, I seated Willa at the kitchen table with a book and her sketchpad.
