Yesterday, I sat with my mother in her small garden in Queens. The rosebushes were in full bloom, smelling of sweet earth and summer rain. She poured tea from a brand-new ceramic pot, her hands steady, her face healthy and full of color.

She smiled at me, really smiled, for the first time in decades.

“We should plant some yellow roses near the gate next spring, Linda,” she said, reaching over to pat my hand.

I looked at her, then down at my own bare ring finger, and I nodded. “Yes, Mom. Yellow ones. I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

I still don’t really know how to feel about the fifteen years I threw away with Arthur. I probably never will. But as we sat there in the warm afternoon light, listening to the distant rumble of the train, I realized I didn’t need to have it all figured out. We had tomorrow. And for now, that was enough.