And then she looked down at her own wrist, where our father’s gold anniversary bracelet caught the afternoon sunlight, restored to the arm it belonged on, and then across the room to the dresser, where her pearl earrings sat safe in her jewelry box.

“It’s a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it,” she murmured, looking out the window at the cherry blossom tree that was blooming, pink and full, in the front yard.

“It is,” I said, and I sat down on the footstool beside her chair.

“And it’s your house again, Mom.

It always was.” My mother smiled then, a real, genuine smile, the kind that reaches all the way to the eyes, the kind I had been afraid, on that first night, that I might never see again.

She reached over and patted my hand, gently.