Theodore Blackwood did not return my plate.
Three days, and the plate with the cheerful sunflower pattern—a housewarming gift from my mother that I'd specifically chosen to leave with him because it seemed like a reasonable excuse for future interaction—remained imprisoned in his gray house of solitude.
"Maybe he's using it," my best friend Hannah suggested during our evening video call. "Maybe he loved the cinnamon rolls so much he's keeping the plate as a shrine."
"Or maybe he threw everything away and forgot the plate existed."
"That's dark. I like the shrine theory better."
I was sitting on my new porch, wrapped in a blanket against the Oregon evening chill, watching the stars appear between the clouds. Theodore's house was dark except for one window on the second floor—his office, I assumed. The light had been on every night since I'd arrived.
"Have you googled him?" Hannah asked.
"Of course I've googled him. What kind of stalker neighbor would I be if I hadn't?" I pulled up my phone, showing her the results. "Theodore Blackwood, author of 'The Weight of Silence,' which was apparently a big deal literary novel about grief. Published five years ago. Won some awards. And then... nothing. No interviews, no social media, no public appearances. He just disappeared."
"Maybe he's working on his next masterpiece."
"Maybe he's a vampire."
"Daisy."
"The man only comes out at dusk. I've been watching."
"That's concerning for reasons I don't have time to unpack." Hannah's tone shifted to the gentle one she'd been using since I told her about Michael. "How are you really doing? First week in a new place, alone, nobody around except a grumpy author who won't return your kitchenware?"
I considered the question. I'd been avoiding considering the question.
"I'm okay," I said finally. "Not good, not fixed, not over it. But okay." I watched the light in Theodore's window. "Some days I wake up and forget that my life is different now. I reach for my phone to text Michael something funny, and then I remember that Michael is engaged to my cousin and everything I thought I knew was a lie."
"It wasn't all a lie. Your life wasn't a lie. Just him."
"I know. Logically. But grief isn't logical." I pulled the blanket tighter. "Is it weird that moving here feels like grief? I didn't die. My engagement died. My idea of my future died. And now I'm in a new place trying to build something from the wreckage, and sometimes it feels like starting over, and sometimes it feels like losing everything all over again."
Hannah was quiet for a moment. "You're allowed to grieve, Daisy. You're allowed to be sad and angry and scared. You don't have to be sunshine all the time."
"But sunshine is what I'm good at."
"Sunshine is what you show. It's not all of who you are."
The light in Theodore's window went off. I imagined him sitting in the dark, surrounded by words he couldn't write and memories he couldn't escape. We were neighbors in more ways than one.
"I should go," I said. "First day of school tomorrow. I need to be peppy for twenty-three five-year-olds who don't know me yet."
"Call me tomorrow night. Tell me everything."
"I will. Love you."
"Love you too. And Daisy? Give yourself permission to have bad days. The sunshine will still be there when you're ready to find it again."
My first day teaching at Willow Creek Elementary was everything I'd hoped and nothing I'd expected.
The children were wonderful—curious, chaotic, full of questions I didn't know how to answer. ("Miss Martinez, why is the sky blue?" "Miss Martinez, do birds have feelings?" "Miss Martinez, my grandma says you're pretty but you look sad. Are you sad?")
The other teachers were welcoming, if slightly wary of the new girl from Chicago. Small towns had long memories, and apparently the last kindergarten teacher had left under circumstances nobody would explain.
But the best part—the part that made me remember why I'd chosen this job, this path, this life—was watching a student named Oliver finally get his letters to make a word.
"C-A-T," he said slowly, pointing at each letter. "Cat! Miss Martinez, it says CAT!"
"It does! Oliver, you did it!"
His face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds, and for a moment, all my grief and fear and uncertainty disappeared. This was why I taught. This was why I'd dragged myself 2,000 miles from everything I knew. For moments like this, when joy was simple and earned.
I drove home that evening with the windows down, letting the Pacific Northwest air cleanse the classroom smell of Play-Doh and hand sanitizer. When I pulled into my driveway, I was humming—actually humming, for the first time in months.
And then I saw my sunflower plate.
It was sitting on my porch railing, clean and neatly placed, with a sticky note attached.
Thank you for the rolls. Please don't leave more.
—T. Blackwood
It was the rudest thank you note I'd ever received. It was also the first written communication I'd had from my mysterious neighbor.
I smiled.
Progress.