I sat down slowly, testing the springs.
They held.
I picked up the novel I had abandoned nine months earlier. The bookmark was still on page 73. I opened it and began to read.
In early November, I returned to Dr. Harrison’s office for a follow-up blood test. He reviewed the results with a small smile.
“Potassium is 5.3,” he said. “Much better.”
By mid-December, it had dropped to 4.8.
In January of 2025, it reached 4.1—well within normal range.
“You’re doing great, Linda,” Dr. Harrison said. “Keep it up.”
I nodded.
My hands had stopped shaking. I could open jars again. I could walk through the grocery store without needing to sit.
In late December, I unpacked the pottery wheel I had not touched in three years. I wedged a ball of clay, centered it on the wheel, and shaped a small bowl.
My hands remembered the motion. The clay rose and fell under my palms.
When I finished, I set it on the shelf to dry.
It was lopsided.
But it was mine.
In early March, I stood in the backyard with a folded piece of paper in my hand—Richard’s garden sketch drawn on a napkin in the summer of 2001. The ink had faded, but the lines were still clear: rows of tomatoes, clusters of basil, a border of sunflowers along the back fence.
I bought seedlings at the farmers market on South First Street. I dug into the soil with a hand trowel, planted each one carefully, and watered them in the cool morning light.
By mid-March, tiny green shoots began to push through the earth.
I also bought a new coffee maker—a simple drip machine with a glass carafe. Every morning, I brewed a single cup of black coffee, added a pinch of sea salt, and drank it standing by the kitchen window looking out at the garden.
No sugar. No cream.
Just coffee, salt, and silence.
Every Thursday afternoon, I volunteered at the Austin Public Library, reading picture books to children in the upstairs corner. Their laughter filled the room. I read about dragons and dinosaurs and brave little mice.
When I closed the last page, they clapped.
On Saturday mornings, I met Diane at Groundwork Cafe on East 6th. We ordered lattes and sat by the window. She told me about her grandson’s soccer games. I told her about the tomatoes.
We did not talk much about Brooke or Michael.
There was no need.
The hollow in my chest—the one I thought would never close—was beginning to fill. Not with what I had lost, not with reconciliation, but with the life I was choosing to build alone, on my own terms.
It is late May 2025.
I sit in the green chair by the window, a cup of black coffee with a pinch of salt in my hand, and watch the tomatoes ripening on the vine.
The garden is full now. The basil smells like summer. The sunflowers tower over the back fence, their faces turning toward the morning light.
I think about Michael sometimes. I wonder if he is managing—if he has found another job, if he is paying off the debt Brooke left behind, if he is still going to therapy twice a week. I wonder if he sits alone in that small apartment at night thinking about what he lost.
I wonder if he thinks of me.
