Inside was a new cushion cover.
Grey-blue.
Not an exact match for my chair.
But close.
There was a note.
I still owe you a towel.
I’m working on it.
D.
I smiled.
Then I put the cushion cover on the chair.
Daniel’s mother died in June.
The next morning, he knocked on my door.
Mrs. Okafor had apparently told him he could.
I made tea.
He sat at the same kitchen table where I had once spread photographs, lease clauses, and complaint paperwork.
He didn’t talk much at first.
Eventually, he told me about his mother before she became ill.
The things she loved.
The way she always called on Sundays.
The tea she ordered from one particular shop.
“She called me last Sunday,” he said.
“She didn’t know who I was.”
His voice tightened.
“But she still asked whether I was okay.”
I thought about that.
“That was still her.”
He nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
After a while, Daniel said,
“You didn’t have to let me in.”
“I’ve lived here eleven years,” I replied. “What happens between neighbors in the middle matters.”
He looked at his tea.
“I behaved badly.”
“Yes.”
“I was careless first. Then rude.”
“Yes.”
“You were completely right.”
“Yes.”
He almost smiled.
