Clara did not ask Chloe whether she remembered the road, whether her hands still seemed to hurt, or whether seeing the flowers had replaced the fear forever.

No one could promise that a memory would never trouble a person again.

They could let this moment be what it was: a mother and daughter looking at plants before lunch.

From inside came the boys’ laughter and James calling for someone to show him where the drinking glasses were kept.

“He comes here enough,” Chloe said.

“He should know.”

“He asks because the boys keep offering new cupboards.”