I stood up, my knees trembling slightly, and walked to the hallway closet where I had hidden the garment bag after Clara left.
I brought it back into the living room and laid the ivory gown across the back of the armchair, the soft satin catching the light from the window.
“I told you I would save it for you, and I did,” I said, my fingers smoothing the satin skirt of the gown.
Daniel stared at the ivory dress, his lips moving without making a sound, his eyes shining in the dim room.
“You kept it,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Every single year,” I said. “Even when Clara told me to burn it.”
He reached out and touched the hem of the sleeve, his rough fingers catching slightly on the delicate lace trim.
At six o’clock, I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove, wanting the familiar weight of a ceramic mug to steady the shaking in my chest. The kitchen was cool, the shadows lengthening across the linoleum floor as the sun dipped below the tree line.
Daniel followed me, his eyes tracking the old wood cabinets and the yellow oil lamps lined up on the shelf above the sink in case of a winter storm. He moved with a quiet stiffness, as if he expected the floorboards to give way beneath him.
He stopped beside the small walnut table where I kept a few framed photographs of the family who used to fill this house with noise.
His hand reached out to a small silver frame containing a black-and-white picture of my mother and father standing on the steps of the Oakhaven courthouse in 1965.
Daniel turned the frame over to read the faded ink inscription on the back, written in my mother’s tight, elegant cursive.
His hand stopped, his fingers locking around the silver edge of the frame.
The silver watch on his wrist clicked against the wood of the table as his hand began to shake, his fingers turning pale under the fingernails.
“Martha,” he whispered.
“What is it, Daniel?” I asked, setting the kettle down on the cold burner.
He did not look at me, his eyes locked on the old handwriting on the cardboard backing of the frame.
“Whose writing is this?” he asked, his voice tighter than before.
“My mother wrote that the day they bought the farm,” I said, taking a step closer to the table. “She always signed the back of every picture.”
Daniel stared at the photo with a pale, frozen expression as the kitchen clock ticked.
