Lucy's mother sat on a bench in a sad little greenhouse, texting her beloved daughter.
After typing everything she could think of in one long epic apology text, she put her phone in her pocket and folded her hands.
Every thirty seconds thereafter she would think of something else to say, pull out her cell phone, and send Lucy another quick text.
Finally satiated with her sorry, she lifted her eyes towards the Greenhouse door, looking past her other daughter, her son, her grandchildren, into the wild blue yonder.
Backlit by bright sunshine, a human shape appeared in her field of vision, coming through the double doors like a breath of fresh air.
Her husband.
They would celebrate 35 years together in September.
He walked directly towards her, across the tropics, and with each step his bright smile faded a little more until he was upon her with a worried, downcast haze.
She looked up at him.
He sat down.
She reached out for his hand.
"She knows about California," she said.
He sighed.
"Where is she?" he said.
"I don't know."
After a long pause punctuated by a flat train engine choo chooing above their heads, she spoke again.
"She wants to be so independent," she said, close to tears.
"You worry about her too much," he said, looking at her for a nanosecond, squeezing her hand forever.
She looked back at him.
"Hello kettle," she said. "I'm pot."
They both smiled, and sighed, and stopped smiling.
They held hands for the longest time, gazing out those greenhouse doors at the world who wanted their daughter.
They wanted her first.
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