Charlotte stood at my door, pale and worried, holding another paper bag.
She showed up carrying my dinner and looking like life had asked too much of her.
"Did I do something wrong?" she rushed out. "Please don't complain. They'll fire me."
"Breathe," I said gently. "Come inside. You deserve to see what you did."
Her eyes searched mine as if she were deciding whether I was safe. Then, slowly, she stepped over the threshold.
I closed the door and turned on the lights. Charlotte froze.
The living room glowed with string lights. On the wall, across the mantel, along the shelves, I had placed enlarged photos from prom night that Uncle Ray had kept in old boxes all these years.
There we were in 2006, standing by the punch bowl, laughing on the dance floor, smiling outside her front door, me looking stunned to be happy and Charlotte looking like kindness had always come as naturally as breathing.
