“I salvaged those glass pieces when they remodeled the hospital chapel’s stained glass windows eighteen years ago,” Thomas said. “I kept a log of every date Arthur told me about. Your mother’s birthday, the day you lost Leo, all of it.

I left them to let Clara know she wasn’t alone in that pew.”

He opened his folder and slid a document toward the notary.

“And this is a signed, witnessed statement from the parish council and my own medical retirement board, certifying Clara’s complete mental competency. I’ve also filed a harassment report with the county sheriff’s office regarding the false reports made about her.”

Mrs. Gable, the notary, looked at the papers, then looked at Misty. She quietly capped her pen and packed her stamp into her briefcase.

“I won’t be notarizing these deed transfers,” Mrs. Gable said. She stood up, nodded to me, and walked out of the house.

Greg finally looked up. His face was bright red, completely filled with shame. He looked at his wife, then at me.

“Mom, I didn’t know,” Greg whispered. “Misty said you were really struggling.”

“Get out of my house, Greg,” I said. “And take your wife with you.”

They left.

Misty didn’t even look back as she marched down the gravel driveway, her high heels clicking angrily against the stones. Greg followed her, his head hanging low.

Thomas stayed for a cup of tea. We sat at the kitchen table, and for the first time in eighteen years, I didn’t feel the weight of Arthur’s last night. I knew he hadn’t been alone.

That was three months ago.

My house is quiet now. Greg hasn’t called much, which hurts in a dull, distant sort of way, but it’s a clean kind of quiet. I know exactly where I stand.

This morning, I went out to my garden. The heirloom tomatoes are finally coming in red and heavy, just the way Arthur liked them.

I brought the blue piece of glass out with me and set it on the small stone bench under the oak tree.

It’s just a regular Tuesday, but the sun is warm on my shoulders, and I think I’m going to be just fine.