Page 98 of Nineteen Letters

“I want to.”

I stand to the side so she can enter the house first, and I smile when she does exactly that. She pauses just inside the doorway as she takes in the large space before her. This house was once so alive with laughter and happiness, now it just seems far too big and quiet.

When we designed the interior, we wanted plenty of room, not only for our friends to stay over, but for the family we planned to have in the future—but I push those thoughts out of my mind. I’m just happy she has finally found the courage to come into the house.

“Wow,” she says softly. “It’s so beautiful in here.”

The windows that run along the back of the house let in an abundance of natural light, which makes the room appear larger and illuminates the interior, increasing the overall beauty of the space. Working together on the plans for this place is one of my most precious memories of us.

I unload the dishes onto the breakfast bar and join Jemma. “Let me take those,” I say, reaching out for the coffee mugs she’s holding. “Have a look around if you’d like.”

She keeps hold of the mugs. “Let me help you with the dishes.”

I think that’s her polite way of saying thanks-but-no-thanks, and I’m okay with that.Baby steps.

“You can rinse.”

“Okay.”

I can tell she’s a little overwhelmed by all this, but she’s smiling. Smiling is good.

We set to work, and I can’t help but watch her as she stops intermittently to gaze out the window. Seeing her like this—relaxed, rinsing breakfast dishes at the sink—is such a familiar sight and something I once took for granted. But not anymore.

“The view from here is breathtaking. I’d be happy to wash dishes every day if I could do it from here.”

I pack the dishwasher as she rinses, and we have it done in no time.

“I’ll just run upstairs and grab my keys, and we’ll be off,” I say.

“Could I use the bathroom before we go?”

“Of course.”

I lead her across the living room, and again I see her eyes everywhere, taking it all in. Then she spots Samson.

“Is this the bird you mentioned? The one that belonged to your father?”

“Yes. Samson.”

“Come say hello. He misses his pretty girl.”

“His what?”

“That’s what he calls you, Pretty Girl.”

“He does not,” she says with a small laugh.

“Come see.”

As soon as he sees us, he flies towards the front of the cage, latching his clawed feet around the wire. His beady eyes are firmly fixed on Jemma, and he starts to bounce up and down as we get closer. “Squawk… Pretty Girl.”

“See, I told you.”

“Pretty Girl … Pretty Girl … who’s my Pretty Girl …squawk.”

“Oh my god,” she says, covering her mouth and giggling.

“Yes, your Pretty Girl is here,” I tell to Samson, sliding my finger in between the bars of the cage and scratching his neck.