The hydrangeas had finally bloomed. They were no longer sticks in the dirt but vibrant clusters of blue and purple, heavy with rainwater from the night before. Bella stood at the edge of the garden, shears in hand. The house behind her was no longer a fixer-upper. The paint was fresh white. The porch was level. The windows were clean. It was a home.
She cut the stems. The sound was sharp, a clean snap. She gathered the flowers in her arm. They smelled of earth and sweetness.
She walked into the kitchen. The room was no longer bare. The table was wood, sanded and oiled. The chairs were mismatched, found at estate sales. The shelves held books and dishes and the small wooden box Leo had given her.
David was at the table. He was reading the newspaper. He looked up when she entered. He didn
