Tonight, though, I just stood in the doorway of our small, imperfect home, holding my mother’s first real gift in three years, and let myself hope.
Hope that people could change.
Hope that love could grow in unexpected places.
Hope that someday, maybe, my mother would ring the doorbell instead of leaving notes under the mat.
I closed the door and locked it, turning off the porch light.
In the morning, Aaron would wake up and make too much noise and spill something else. Anna would come home tired and beautiful. We’d have breakfast together at our nicked table, drinking from our mismatched mugs, being exactly who we were.
And that was enough.
That was more than enough.
That was everything.
