Lucy had repainted it the previous weekend.
Bright purple.
With tiny yellow stars.
I looked toward the window.
Then at Thomas's anniversary letters.
And I finally understood what the address had led me to.
Not merely a secret son.
Not merely twenty-eight million dollars.
Not even the truth about Raymond.
It had led me toward a part of life I thought was closed to me forever.
At seventy-two, I had become a mother in the heart of a grown man.
I had become a grandmother to a little girl who loved books and yellow shoes.
And I had found a purpose that made me eager to wake up each morning.
One year earlier, I thought Thomas's death had left me with nothing but memories.
Now I understood how much life could still hold.
The next morning, my phone rang.
It was Lucy.
“Grandma!”
I smiled.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
“Dad says we're making pancakes.”
