“You waited a long time,” she said quietly.
“She was worth waiting for.”
“I know. I’m glad you knew it too.” She squeezed his arm. “Welcome to the family. Officially.”
Someone found glasses. The champagne was opened. They toasted surrounded by moving boxes, and it was perfect anyway.
“When’s the wedding?” Bea demanded. “Where’s the wedding? Can I be a bridesmaid? I should be a bridesmaid.”
“We literally just got engaged,” Meg laughed. “We haven’t discussed anything.”
“So discuss! We’re all right here! We have opinions!”
“You always have opinions.”
They talked until the champagne was gone. Tyler documented everything with his camera. Stella helped Bea arrange the cheese board into something Instagram-worthy. Margo sat on the window seat, watching her family fill the house with noise and life and love.
Eventually, reluctantly, people began to leave.
“I should get back,” Meg said, hugging Anna one more time. “I’m glad you’re here. In the house. It should have someone living in it who actually lives.”
“Thank you for letting me have it.”
“Thank Margo. It was always her call.”
Margo, passing by, squeezed Anna’s arm. “It wasalways going to be yours. I was just waiting for you to be ready to claim it.”
They filtered out—Tyler and Stella first, then Margo, then Meg and Luke hand in hand. Anna stood in the doorway watching them go, then turned back to the house.
Her house. Her home.
Bea was back in her room, unpacking teenager style—which meant everything was on the floor, but at least it was a start.
Anna walked through the living room again. This time, instead of seeing Sam’s ghost, she tried to see what could be.
Her easel by the window, catching the morning light. Her books on the shelves. Her coffee cups in the kitchen. Her daughter doing homework at the table.
“Mom?” Bea called.
“Yeah?”
“I found something in the closet.”
Anna walked to Bea’s room. Her daughter was holding a small canvas—maybe eight by ten—dusty but intact.
“It was behind where Meg had her boxes stacked,” Bea said. “Must have been there the whole time. We just couldn’t see it.”
Anna took the canvas. Turned it over.
It was one of Sam’s. Early work, judging by the style—loose, impressionistic, all emotion and movement. A woman standing at a window, looking out at the ocean.You couldn’t see her face, just the curve of her back, the tension in her shoulders, the sense of someone caught between staying and leaving.
“Is that—” Bea started.
“I don’t know.” Anna studied the painting. It could have been Sam. It could have been anyone. “Maybe.”
“Are you going to keep it?”
Anna thought about it. This piece of her mother, hidden in a closet, left behind like everything else Sam left behind.
