Chapter 14 - THE FRONT STEPSFor months, I disliked the front entrance.
The place where the suitcase broke.
Where Nora cried.
Where Margaret pointed toward the street.
Then Nora began walking.
One afternoon she toddled toward the steps.
Daniel crouched three feet away.
“Come on.”
She took one step.
Then another.
Lost balance.
Sat down hard.
Looked surprised.
Then laughed.
Dad happened to be visiting.
He clapped like she had won an Olympic medal.
Nora tried again.
By sunset, she could climb the first two steps holding Daniel’s hand.
I watched.
The memory shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
The entrance was no longer only the place we were expelled.
It became the place our daughter learned to climb.
That was enough.
We did not replace the stone.
No memorial.
No dramatic redesign.
May you like
Just life.
Sometimes ordinary repetition reclaims a place better than symbolism.
