A week later, Daniel called.
“May I come Sunday?” he asked.
“Just me.”
“Yes.”
“Should I bring anything?”
“Vanilla ice cream.”
I baked another brown-butter apple pie.
When he arrived, he knocked instead of using the spare key I had not yet given him.
I opened the door because I chose to.
That was the difference.
The house was smaller.
The table was the same.
The lake still breathed against the shore.
And this time, nobody entered my home believing my love had made it theirs.
