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after the
funeral.”
    Christine was silent. She went
back to wiping the dishtowel over the plate in her hand, scrubbing streaks of
water even after they disappeared. Her lips pulled down at the sides, and she
said, “You did?”
    “I want a love like Grandma and Grandpa’s.”
    Christine smiled and spoke
slowly, “Yeah. There aren’t too many loves like that, but Paul is a good man.
You’ll be happy with him. Don’t you think?”
    “I do.” The dishwater had cooled,
and Olivine blasted more hot water into the sink. She felt the steam on her
face; she breathed in deeply and let the fullness of it enter her lungs. She
turned again to face her mother, pressing her hands down on the edge of the
sink. “Paul makes sense. You know? He’s exactly the kind of guy I’ve always
planned to find. Someone who knows what he wants. Someone who is doing
something important with his life.”
    Christine chuckled softly. “You’ve
always wanted to be someone, Olivine.”
    “I know.”
    “More than you wanted to find someone; you wanted to be someone. You’ve always wanted to make some kind
of an impact. This ambition; this sheer over-thinking, wasso
pronounced when you were a little girl, it was almost like it was a condition.”
Christine laughed. “Remember that newspaper you created for the neighborhood?
You even had an investigative piece about who stole Julie Barrett’s soccer ball.
Remember that?”
    “I remember.”
    “And you wrote that adorable
earnest-as-hell editorial about how we should all do our part to make the world
a happier, prettier place?”
    “Ugh. Don’t remind me. I was a
silly little girl.”
    “No, you weren’t silly at all. That’s
just my point. You never did enjoy the folly of youth. Not really. You just
always knew that you had the power to change people. To change their minds. You
have a certain something, especially when you were younger. And how you can
write!”
    “Well, that didn’t exactly work
out.”
    “Why would you say that?”
    “I’ve been writing and publishing
and writing and publishing, and the most ambitious or earth-shattering thing I
wrote last year was a memoir for some trust funder who hasn’t even done
anything yet that’s worthy of writing about.”  
    Her mom chuckled and stacked a
plate by the sink.
    “Just because your writing career
hasn’t taken off by now, it doesn’t mean you need to change course. It doesn’t
mean you need to seek your legacy in a different way. You are enough ,
honey, just the way you are. You will live a life of significance, no matter
what you do. Just by virtue of the person you are. The light you bring to your
little corner. Your little corner of the world.”
    “I appreciate the sentiment, mom,
but what does that have to do with my engagement?”
    “I just think that you might be
mistaking Grandma’s legacy for your own. Her legacy was to give birth to this
amazing, loving family. Maybe yours is, too. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe yours is
to write wonderful words that inspire people and help them to live richer,
better lives.”
    “I gave writing a chance.”
    “Don’t speak in the past tense
like that. You’re young.”
    “Not so much.”
    “Well, when you’re my age, you’ll
think thirty-two is young. Hell, when you’re thirty-five, you’ll think
thirty-two is young. Things don’t have to go according to a plan or a diagram
you drew out when you were younger. Sometimes the best thing that can possibly
happen to you is that you are forced into a detour.”
    “Detours make me a little
panicky,” Olivine replied. “Whether they are on the road or in my life.” She
scooped up a handful of suds and stared into them. Tiny spheres—some white,
some iridescent—all mashed together. She continued. “Maybe it is related
to Grandma. I feel a… a sense of panic. I’m sure it’s related to me feeling,
finally, a sense of my own mortality.” The words were coming out of her
quickly, before she had a chance to