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"She knew I'd go there."

Mom's eyes fill.

"Of course she did."

I hand her the letter. She reads it slowly. When she finishes, she folds it along the same crease and gives it back.

"You don't have to decide today."

"Mom."

"I mean it. Think about it."

She takes my hand.

"And remember, if you decide you need to go back to New York, I'll take care of Noah."

I look toward the stairs. At the little boy sleeping upstairs. The little boy I tucked into bed without thinking about it. Then I look at Lily's letter. I don't answer. I don't need to. Not yet.

Three weeks later, I am still in Oakridge. And according to my mother, I'm becoming unbearable.

"We need tomatoes."

I look up from my coffee.

"What?"

"Tomatoes. Basil. Green beans. Maybe squash."

"Is this a grocery list or a threat?"

"Both."

Mom pushes a canvas bag across the kitchen table.

"You're going to the Saturday market."

"I am?"

"Yes."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

"You haven't left this house for anything that wasn't absolutely necessary."

"I've been busy."

"You've been moping."

"I have not been moping."

She gives me the look.

"Fine. I've been selectively avoiding humanity."

"Lily would hate it."

"That's manipulative."