So I let him go.

Not as a gift to him.

As a gift to myself, so that I could turn back toward my garden and my mother and my life, and not carry him into any of it.

They stayed until the light went soft and lavender, and then they said their goodbyes and promised to come back for Thanksgiving, and I walked them to the gate and watched their car glide away down the quiet street.

When I came back to the gazebo, the garden lights had come on, casting their warm gold across the stone, and my mother was sitting with the little velvet jewelry box in her lap, looking up at the first stars.