“If all goes smoothly here, maybe a week from today.”

“I’ll take good care of them until you’re back.”

“Thanks.” She was silent a moment. “It’s so nice to hear your voice, Henry. This house is so lonely and quiet.”

Does she wish I was there as much as I do? I wondered. But I asked a different question instead. “Is it hard packing it all up and saying goodbye?”

“You know, not really. I think if I wasn’t so excited about our new house and anxious to get back home, it might be. But I know where I belong now.”

You belong with me, I wanted to tell her. The words were right there, I could feel them on the tip of my tongue—but I couldn’t say them. It would only make things worse.

But the more time we spent together, the more I was convinced it was the truth.

She sighed. “Well, I should probably let you go. I know it’s late there . . . I just wanted to hear your voice. Is that terrible of me?”

“Of course not. You can always call me.”

She called two nights later, joyfully describing how angry Kimmy had been at the discovery of the missing silver. “It was hilarious,” she said, giggling. “Brett was apologizing up and down for not showing up yesterday to get it, and she was tearing him a new asshole about how she’d told him over and over again that she really wanted it and he never listens to her. I was in the other room laughing my head off.”

I laughed. “And the kids arrive tomorrow?”

“Yes. We should have everything cleared out of here by Monday, they leave that morning, the closing is Tuesday, and I’m on the first flight out of here Wednesday. I can’t wait to get home.”

“You sound really good, Sylvia.”

“I feel pretty good. I’m a little worried how the kids are going to react to saying goodbye to the house—this is the only home they’ve ever known, and I think the concept of selling it has been mostly abstract until now.”

“Yeah, that could be hard. I remember being surprised when my parents sold their farm how emotional it was leaving it for the last time, and I was already in my twenties. But I’d grown up there, and it felt like leaving a piece of my childhood behind.”

“Tell me more about your childhood,” she said. “I feel like we’re always talking about mine.”

We spent hours that night on the phone trading stories about our youths—favorite memories, broken bones, best friends, playground dramas, awards won, sports played, high school proms.

“Wait—how many guys asked you to the prom?” I asked in disbelief. “Did you say four?”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“How did you choose?”

“Truth? I picked a name out of a hat.” She giggled. “I let Frannie pick it.”