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She would find herself standing someplace in the house—in front of the half-empty closet or in Graham’s study or facing the bathroom mirror or at the kitchen windows, looking out—and have no idea what impulse had brought her there, or how long before.
She thought for the first time too of the way in which her presence at so many important moments in Annie’s life with Graham might have been intrusive. Unwelcome.
She thought with sorrow of how she had let Sarah grow up without taking many photographs of her. Maybe if she’d looked at her more, looked at her more with the camera—that intense kind of noticing—everything would have been better for Sarah.
Her gladness. It wasn’t just that Graham was alive again. It was that she was too. I loved him again, she wanted to say. I remembered that I loved him.
