The letter was not perfect. There were places where she still explained herself at greater length than I wished, and I could hear traces of the argument she had used on that Friday night. But it was the first time she had spoken about the decision without asking me to make the consequences smaller. I read it twice, then set it on the table. It felt good to know she was beginning to understand. It did not make me want to call her.
I wrote back the following weekend. The message was short, because I had learned that long explanations can sometimes be mistaken for negotiations. I thanked her for the apology, said I hoped she continued doing the work she described, and told her I needed our separation to remain final. I wished her well without promising friendship, reconciliation, or a future meeting. She replied once, thanking me for reading the letter. After that, we did not speak.
The first time I went back to the botanical garden was in October. Grace invited me because a temporary exhibition of landscape photographs was opening, and she had received two tickets through a school program. I nearly refused, remembering the awning where I proposed and the narrow path where Lauren had once danced in the rain. Then I decided I did not want to surrender a whole garden to one part of my past. I went with my sister on a cool Saturday afternoon and let the place be what it had always been: a public garden full of people carrying their own histories.
We walked past the greenhouse. The flowers had changed with the season, and the pond was covered in leaves. A couple stood near the awning taking engagement photographs, the woman laughing as the man tried to keep her veil from blowing into his face. I felt a small ache, but it did not swallow me. I could wish them well without calculating what might happen to their marriage, and that realization felt like a quiet return of something I thought I had lost.
Grace noticed me looking and linked her arm through mine. "You okay?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "Actually, I think I am."
"That's a dangerous sentence from you. It usually means you're about to volunteer for extra work."
I laughed. She smiled in satisfaction, as though the joke had accomplished something important. We continued along the path without discussing Lauren. At the exit, Grace bought a small packet of wildflower seeds from the gift shop and pressed it into my hand. She said my new balcony needed something alive on it besides the resilient spider plant my mother had donated.
I planted the seeds in two long boxes the following morning. At first there was nothing to see but dark soil and a few small markers. I watered them anyway, checking the instructions and trying not to interfere with a process that couldn't be rushed. When the first green shoots appeared, they were so small I nearly missed them. I took a photograph and sent it to Grace, who responded with a row of celebratory exclamation points.