She had been given a choice and had taken it.

I recognized the dignity in something so unremarkable.

Later, we went shopping for paint.

Mom wanted the living room pale green instead of the cold gray Wendell had chosen.

She stood before a wall of color samples, debating whether one shade was too yellow and another too blue.

“You know this could take hours,” I told her.

“You’ve sat through intelligence briefings.

Surely you can endure a paint store.”