“Besides, by the time we’re done in here, I expect we might make a mess or two,” Lauren added.
The foyer looked exactly as Maggie remembered. The hardwood floors she had refinished herself the summer Beth turned ten. The staircase with the banister Christopher used to slide down despite her repeated warnings. The mirror on the wall where she had checked her reflection every morning before driving the kids to school, making sure she looked like a woman who had her life together even when she didn't.
Over the years since she had left for Captiva, Maggie had returned to the house on Maple Street for one event or another, but today, she looked at the house with new eyes, and the emotions she felt surprised her.
“Mom?” Lauren's voice was gentle. “You okay?”
“I'm okay. Just...remembering.”
Chelsea held up the phone so Beth and Emily could see. “We're inside. Can you see?”
“I can see,” Beth said, her voice small through the speaker. “Is that mirror still there? I can’t believe we didn’t get rid of that cracked thing.”
“Same mirror,” Maggie confirmed. “I could never bring myself to replace it.”
“I broke that mirror once,” Christopher said. “Threw a baseball in the house. Dad helped me fix it before Mom got home from the grocery store.”
“You what?”
“It was twenty years ago, Mom. I think the statute of limitations has expired.”
“There is no statute of limitations on throwing baseballs in the house.”
Becca appeared from the kitchen, Eloise on her hip.
“Coffee's ready,” Becca said. “I figured we'd need it.”
“You figured right.” Grandma Sarah was already heading toward the kitchen. “Point me to the mugs.”
“They’re in the same cabinet as always. Left of the sink.”
The group migrated through the house slowly, reverently, each room triggering a cascade of memories. The living room where they had opened Christmas presents every year. The dining room where Maggie had hosted countless holiday dinners, Thanksgiving turkeys and Easter hams and birthday cakes for five children across two decades. The kitchen where she had packed thousands of lunches, wiped thousands of tears,had thousands of conversations that ranged from trivial to life-changing.
“The height marks,” Sarah said suddenly, pointing to the doorframe between the kitchen and the hallway. “They're still here.”
“Becca and I talked about ripping that thing from the wall to keep it,” Christopher said.
Sarah laughed. “I’m as nostalgic as anyone, but even I think that’s going too far, Chris.”
“You might be right. Plus, I don’t think the new owners would be very happy about it,” he said as he took a photo of the door frame.
They gathered around, five adults and one baby, looking at the colorful lines that marched up the white-painted wood. Each child had their own color—blue for Michael, green for Christopher, purple for Lauren, pink for Sarah, yellow for Beth. The lines started low, barely above the baseboard, and climbed steadily upward, documenting growth spurts and the slow march of time.
“I remember this,” Lauren said softly. “Every birthday, Mom would make us stand against the doorframe and she'd mark our height with a pencil first, then go over it with the colored marker.”
“And you'd try to stand on your tiptoes,” Sarah added. “Every single time.”
“I wanted to be taller than you.”
“You never were.”
“I am now.”
“By half an inch. That doesn't count.”
Chelsea turned the phone so Beth and Emily could see the doorframe. “Look at this. All five of you.”
On the screen, Beth was crying again, the quiet, unstoppable tears that had become her constant companion since the twinsarrived. Emily leaned in, studying the marks with intense interest.
