It fit.
I don’t know how.
I had not worn it since the wedding.
But it fit now, perfectly, as if the size had changed or my hand had or both.
I sat in Eleanor’s chair for a little while longer.
The light moved across the floor the way it always had.
Outside the window, someone was walking through the garden below, moving slowly, the way people do when they are not in a hurry to be anywhere else.
I thought about what I was going to do with what Eleanor had left me.
Not the money — that was a practical question for practical days.
I mean what she had actually left me.
The knowledge that someone had looked for me for forty years and found me and thought I was worth finding.
That someone had sat across from me twice a week and seen something in my face she had not seen in fifty years and chosen, quietly, to stay.
