After my parents died, I kept the house.
I had spent enough years moving between apartments that returning there somehow felt right.
That evening, I ate dinner alone and cut myself a slice of birthday cake.
At 9:17 p.m., the old landline rang.
Almost nobody used that number anymore.
I nearly let it ring.
Instead, I answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice said,
“Is this Ruth?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Peter. I’m Jeffrey’s son.”
I immediately sat down.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
“Jeffrey’s son?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
Peter hesitated.
“My father wants to talk to you. He… doesn’t have much time.”
My hand tightened around the receiver.
Before I could respond, I heard movement on the other end.
Then another voice came through.
Weak.
Older.
But instantly familiar.
“Ruthie.”
Tears filled my eyes.
Then I heard the faintest laugh.
“Jeffrey?”
