“We do not know which door it opened.
But your grandmother believed it mattered because Nora kept it until the end.”
I placed the key in my daughter’s palm.
“She left one home without allowing anyone to watch her go.
Then she carried the key to another home for the rest of her life.”
My daughter closed her fingers around it.
“I don’t want you to stay because you feel guilty,” I said.
“I do not want you to trade your future for my comfort.
I want you to take the job.
I want you to build whatever life is waiting for you.”
Her eyes shone, though she blinked the tears back.
“Then what do you want from me?”
“The truth before the taxi arrives.”
She looked down.
“And a proper goodbye,” I said.
The driver gently opened the rear door again.
My daughter did not move.
After a moment, she handed the old letter back to me and walked toward the house.
I thought she had changed her mind about leaving.
Instead, she rolled her suitcase from the driver’s hands and pulled it back up the path.
“Mam?”
“Yes?”
“Come inside.”
We returned to the doorway where the argument had begun.
She placed the suitcase beside her and stood facing me beneath the porch light.
Without the taxi between us, without the driver waiting and the neighbour watching, she looked suddenly young.
“My flight leaves at ten forty,” she said.
“The job starts Monday.
I have rented a room with two women from work.
I sold the car because I needed the deposit.
I didn’t book a return ticket because I don’t know when I’m coming back.”
Each sentence hurt.
Each sentence also gave me back a piece of the goodbye she had tried to steal from both of us.
“Are you frightened?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“No.”
“That is often how leaving works.”
She breathed out a broken laugh.
Then she reached for me.
I held her in the doorway where generations of our family had greeted births, marriages, priests, neighbours, cousins and letters from overseas.
I felt the wool of her coat beneath my cheek and remembered fastening buttons on smaller coats while she complained that she was late for school.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t trying to punish you.”
“I know that too.”
“I thought if I left quickly, it would be easier.”
I tightened my arms around her.
“That mistake runs in the family.”
When we stepped apart, she lifted the suitcase handle.
This time, we crossed the threshold together.
We walked down the path slowly.
I noticed ridiculous things: a weed between the stones, a loose thread at her cuff, the squeak of one wheel on her case.
Details become precious when time is narrowing.
At the gate, the driver took her luggage again.
My daughter turned to me before opening the car door.
