her would require remaining interested in who she was becoming, even when familiarity made me think I already knew the answer.
Later, she asked about my father.
“Saturday as usual,” I said. “We might tackle the garage again.”
“Do you want company?”
I began to say she did not need to spend a weekend sorting somebody else’s belongings. Then I stopped. It was the same old impulse: declining help before another person could decide whether to offer it freely.
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Then ask him.”
“I will.”
She
