Four weeks later my sister’s daughter showed up at the front door.
Kira. I had not seen her properly in years. She stood on the porch holding a small terracotta pot with a fern in it, knees dusty, eyes too wide, shoulders tense with the uncertainty of someone who was not sure whether she was allowed to be there.
“Aunt Audrey,” she said. “Mom said to give you this.”
I opened the door wider.
She held out the pot with both hands. “She said she’s sorry.”
That was all. No letter attached. No adult courage delivered alongside it. Just a child carrying an apology that was too heavy for her small arms.
I took the fern.
It was wilted at the edges, soil too dry, roots probably crowded in that cheap pot. Before I could ask Kira if she wanted to come inside for water or a snack, my sister’s voice came sharp from the sidewalk.
