PART 14 — The light in the hallway
Winter made its entrance with cold nights and frost on the roofs. Sometimes, when I looked outside through the window in the evening and watched the snowflakes gently drifting down onto the pavement, I thought of that rainy evening twenty years ago. Of that nineteen-year-old girl who walked out the door with a bag and disappeared into the dark. I couldn't erase that evening.
I couldn't turn back the tears or undo the cold winters. But I knew now that the past didn't have to be a prison as long as you gave the future room. The doorbell rang. I got up from my chair, walked in my slippers to the hallway, and turned on the light. Through the frosted glass of the front door I saw two silhouettes standing: a tall boy wearing a beanie and a woman with her collar turned up against the cold.
I turned the lock and pulled the door open. The cold winter air poured inside, but along with the wind came something much more wonderful: the warm, familiar laughter of my daughter. “Hey Mom,” she said. “Are you ready to eat?” “Always,” I replied, stepping aside to let them in out of the light.
