When my mother was discharged and came home at last, the potted bougainvillea in her front yard were a little trampled from Richard’s failed visit, but they were still alive, and still blooming.

Mrs.

Gable had swept the porch, and watered the garden, and left a fresh pot of chicken soup warming on the stove.

The Saint Jude statue stood exactly where it belonged, a new candle glowing softly beside it.

My mother walked slowly to her favorite armchair and lowered herself into it.

“I really thought,” she said, looking around the little room, “that I wasn’t coming back here.”