That weekend our house was quiet.

Marian slept without interruption.

I spent an hour reading on the porch.

Lucas repaired the loose hinge on the garden gate, then asked whether I wanted help planting herbs.

I said yes, and we worked together in the afternoon sun, our hands muddy and the radio playing softly inside.

It was not proof that everything was healed.

It was evidence that he was capable of imagining a Sunday in which his plans did not automatically outrank everybody else’s.

At dinner Marian took a bite of the soup and declared it too salty.