"Mom—"
"Better," she said again, slower this time. "I said better like it's a competition he lost." A pause. "That's terrible, isn't it?"
"No, not if it's true."
"He'd be furious." Her voice cracked slightly. "Mr. Han showed up at six this morning with his snowblower, and I thought—your father would've stood at the window and critiqued his technique for an hour. Would've gone out there the next day to prove he could do it faster."
I pulled into a spot overlooking the lake and cut the engine. The water stretched out before me, dark and vast, ice creeping toward the center in thin white fingers.
"Yeah," I said. "He would've."
"And I'm relieved he's not here to do it." The words came out fast, like she'd been holding them behind her teeth. "Does that make me a horrible person?"
"No."
"I keep waiting to feel—I don't know. Destroyed. Everyone expects destruction." She was quiet for a moment. I heard the clink of a mug being set down. "But mostly I just feel... lighter.Like I've been holding my breath for thirty years and I finally let it out."
"That—"
"I know. I shouldn't say things like that."
"You can say whatever you need to say."
"Can I?" She laughed again, but this time it sounded more real. "Because Sloane keeps telling me I should be processing, and the grief counselor gave me a workbook, and everyone at church keeps asking if I'm eating enough. Nobody asks if I'm sleeping better. They don't ask if I'm relieved I can leave dishes in the sink overnight without someone commenting about it in the morning."
I watched the lake. The wind pushed at the ice, widening the dark fissure of open water.
"How are you?" I asked. "Really."
She was quiet for long enough that I thought the line had dropped. Then: "I like it here. Nipigon's smaller. Sloane's too busy for my taste, but that's always been true. People wave when they see you. Mr. Han taught me how to play mah-jongg, and I'm terrible at it, but it gets me out of the house."
"That sounds good."
"It is good. That's the part that feels strange." Her voice softened. "I keep thinking I should be sadder, but I'm not. I'm just—here. Making tea. Learning mah-jongg. Watching the neighbor shovel better than your father ever did."
I smiled despite the ache in my chest. "I think that's allowed."
"Is it?"
"Yeah, Mom. It is."
We were quiet again, leaving space to breathe.
"I could come visit in two weeks," I said. "Saturday, maybe. If that works."
"I'd like that." Another pause, and this time I heard her take a breath like she was stepping off a ledge. "And bring Connor. Ionly got to speak with him briefly at the funeral, and I'd like to get to know him properly. Without all the..."
She didn't finish, but I knew what she meant. Without the grief. Without Dad's body two rooms over. Without the weight of everything pressing down on us.
"His name's Hog," I said. "Everyone calls him Hog."
"I remember. He brought banana bread." Her voice warmed. "Sloane's girls are still talking about it. And Mae said he showed her how to do a knitting stitch while we were—well. While things were difficult."
"He did."
"He was very kind. To all of us." She paused. "Your father would've hated him."
The words landed like a slap and a gift at the same time.
