“And the house.” Jane nibbled at the stew.
“What are you thinking?” Mary’s voice broke as she cut the bread.
“We have a guesthouse,” Lizzie began, “and we could take Mom and Dad with us.”
“What would happen to the house?”
“We’d sell it,” Jane said softly.
“And what about me?” Mary asked.
Her sisters had not thought her fate through, or if they had, they weren’t about to admit their plans to Mary.
“I would like to stay here and take care of the place as I’ve always done.”
“The place is falling apart.” Kitty looked around the room. “Needs a renovation.”
“The downstairs bathroom has never worked properly,” Lizzie said.
“Pa never had the funds to fix it,” Jane said defensively. “Old houses are expensive.”
“This house was always old. It was always in need of renovation. It was never brought up to code. But that’s what’s wonderful about it,” Mary said. “It has history. It persists. It’s not a grand brownstone; it’s a home. And I love every corner of it. As longas I can climb the stairs and care for our parents, I don’t think moving them to Connecticut is a very good idea. Mama is afraid of bugs and anything that tweets, including a phone. Papa works in his office every day, or pretends to, but it gives him a purpose to move papers around.”
“He’s been pushing those papers since we were little.” Jane smiled.
“You know, our father is a writer. He never got much encouragement for it.” Mary looked around the table at her sisters.
“He gave up too easily when his book was published,” Jane said.
“Writers don’t give up. Not ever. But we spend a good deal of time wondering how we can reach an audience who may see the world in the same way we do. If you want to know the truth, I would write plays whether I won a prize or not, but getting the prize validated all my years of working at it. Pa never had that—he never got that moment of recognition, that his work was amazing, which it is. He has gone unappreciated; sadly, our mother looks to the world to approve of his work, instead of offering it to him herself.”
“Are you saying our parents are a bad match?” Kitty wondered.
“When it comes to Pa’s writing life, there were challenges, for sure. But he loves her.”
“He understands her,” Lizzie said.
“Isn’t that a form of love?” Jane asked.
“In this house it is,” Mary said. “I see it every day.”
“So what you’re saying is, ride it out? Don’t make a plan for our parents as they age and develop health problems?”
“No, Lizzie, that’s not what I’m saying. I think we see how Pa does with this procedure, and once he’s better, we can discuss this,” Mary said.
“This in no way means we aren’t grateful to you.” Jane patted Mary’s hand.
“Thank you. But please understand why I stay. I love them and I love this house—and I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the world, even if you offered it to me.”
“I felt the same until I moved,” Kitty said. “You find you can make your home anywhere when you set your mind to it.”
“You have a husband and children. That’s different.” Mary looked at them. “You all have husbands and children. I’m alone.”
“You will fall in love someday,” Lizzie assured her.
“Will I?” Mary wondered. “Well, it won’t happen tonight, that’s for sure. But I will put it on my list of things to do.”
The doorbell rang. The girls looked at one another.
