An exercise from class: Writing in the third person, describe a house from the point of view of a mother or father whose daughter has just left home and married a man the mother or father despises. Don’t refer to the wedding itself, or to the mother or father’s hatred of the son-in-law. Focus on the house as she or he experiences it in the wake of the daughter’s departure.

Then describe the same house from the point of view of the same mother or father—except this time the daughter has left home to marry someone the mother or father genuinely loves and approves of. Again, don’t refer to the wedding itself, or to the mother or father’s affection for the son-in-law but on the house as she experiences it in the wake of the daughter’s departure.

I.

Greta turned her back and walked into the house. She listened to the sharp crack of the gravel as the car backed down her driveway, carrying away her Grace and that man. Well, that was that. She turned to walk into the little house, and it felt as if it could not contain her. Walking down the hall, she didn’t even glance at the photograph of her late husband. She stalked to the kitchen, where she lifted the muslin from the bread dough and punched it down with her fists.  

The knives stood in their block like a challenge. The cutting board bore the scars of decades. The water in the red kettle came to a boil, and the whistle sounded, making Greta jump. She grumbled as she moved the kettle off the burner. She used to enjoy quiet cups of tea with her daughter. Guess she’ll have to get used to being on her own. The refrigerator, papered with pictures drawn by Grace, who should be going to art school, stood silent. Greta angrily started pulling them off, dashing tears away with her knuckle. Her hand paused over a self-portrait, Grace holding a bunch of cosmos. "Gone to weed." she spat.

II.

Greta stood in the doorway and watched Grace and Johnny drive away.  She waved until they turned the corner.  She closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer winging after them.  May you be healthy. May you be happy. May you live your lives with ease. Finally, she turned and walked into the little house, her eyes caressing her things, arranged into comfortable familiarity, The coat rack, the love seat, the old rag rug Greta had made with her mother. She walked down the hall and paused at a picture of her husband, dressed in his fly fishing gear and laughing at something. “She’s well provided for,” Greta murmured, running her finger along the frame.

Walking into the kitchen, she lifted the muslin from the rising bread, caressing the dough as if it was a soft cheek. She pushed it down and re-covered it, humming to herself.  Pausing to look at dozens of pencil sketches stuck to the refrigerator with a jumble of magnets, she brought one forward, a self-portrait Gracie drew, wearing a sun hat and holding a bunch of cosmos. "My flower," she murmured.