Later, after the guests had gone, Harold and I stood together on the terrace while snow settled over the trees.

Inside, the sewing-room lamp remained on. Blue fabric lay folded beside the machine. Thomas’s photograph rested on a shelf next to a picture of Harold and me at the lakefront concert.

Two histories.

Neither one erased the other.

Harold slipped his hand into mine.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

“We should go inside.”

“In a minute.”

Below us, cars moved slowly along the snow-covered road. Windows glowed across the park. Somewhere, a family was preparing a table. Somewhere else, a woman was closing a suitcase after finally recognizing that she deserved more than the space others had assigned her.

For years, I believed being a good mother meant giving until nothing remained that might inconvenience the people I loved.

I gave Daniel money.

Time.

Work.

Silence.

For full cooking steps, turn to the next page or click the Open button (>) and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.