“What?”
“Thank you. I mean it.”
Those two words? I don’t think they ever affected me like this.
Because it’s her saying them. And she says them like she means them.
Like nobody’s been standing beside her lately.
Like she’s gotten used to carrying everything herself.
And suddenly I’m thinking about lesson plans spread across her kitchen table.
About fundraiser meetings.
About permit applications.
About all the ways she’s been trying to save this school.
Alone.
I grip the steering wheel tighter.
Because I hate that.
I really fucking hate that.
Ten minutes later we pull onto her street.
The neighborhood is quiet.
Warm porch lights glowing against the darkness.
Families settling in for the night.
Home.
Mary's mother’s house appears halfway down the block.
Small.
Older.
Loved.
The porch light casts a golden glow across the front steps.
Flower boxes sit beneath the windows even though nothing's blooming yet.
The place looks exactly like her.
Comfortable.
Welcoming.
Real.
I pull to the curb and put the truck in park.