Her mother stared at her. “Six months is a long time to be alone. I had no one. All my friends had someone. I was always the odd man out. I stopped getting invited to places because…because it was couples and I was no longer a couple. I was lonely.”

There were tears in her mother’s eyes, and Laura cursed herself for being so blunt with her.

“We tried to be here for you, Mom.”

“I know, but it wasn’t the same as having a partner. Someone to do things with. Someone to talk to in the evenings. Someone to share meals with.”

“I’m sorry. I can see your point.” She held her hand up. “Truce, remember. Let me unpack.”

Chapter Three

After three days, Laura had settled into somewhat of a routine. That routine, unfortunately, did not involve writing. Writer’s block was a terrible thing. A horrible thing. She must have started and stopped ten or twelve different outlines in the past month alone. Not a one of them had the makings of a novel.

“Breakfast on the patio again?” she called to her mother.

Her mother shuffled into the kitchen, using her walker. Since the first day, the wheelchair had come out only in the evenings, when her mother was tired.

“We should take advantage of the spring weather. It’ll be too hot before long.”

“I don’t have anything fancy today. Oatmeal with fruit and toast,” she said as she buttered a slice.

“I don’t expect fancy, Laura Sue.”

Laura had stopped complaining of her mother’s use of her middle name. It had fallen on deaf ears. “Can you make it out or do you need help?”

“I can manage.”

Laura resisted the urge to open the door for her. The more independence her mother had, the better it would be for the both of them. She loaded the serving tray with their bowls of oatmeal and toast and two glasses of orange juice. She had found that her mother, unlike her, was a one cup a day coffee drinker, which she usually had while she watching the morning news. Laura, on the other hand, took her first cup outside with her, usually before dawn or right at it. The empty bird feeders had been filled her first day here. The low branches of the oak tree by the fence—where three feeders were hung—were a flurry of activity and she enjoyed the sights and sounds as the new day began. That was her quiet time, before her mother got up. If it was a particularly pleasant morning, she’d have two cups outside before going back in to start breakfast.

“I hear music. Do you?”

Laura put the tray down, then tilted her head and listened. “Yes.” She scowled. “The neighbor?”

“I imagine. At least it’s not that godawful stuff those young people listen to.”

“Young people? How old is she, anyway?”