She gave a small nod.
Then she joined Michael and Noah beside the moving truck.
Michael returned my spare house key.
He hugged me.
“I’m sorry for not defending you, Mom.”
I held him for a moment.
“I hope next time you won’t need someone to tell you what’s right.”
He nodded against my shoulder.
Then he stepped back and went to his car.
I stood on the porch while they drove away.
Tilly sat beside my feet.
When the truck disappeared around the corner, I went inside and closed the door.
The house felt enormous.
I walked into the dining room.
James’s china cabinet stood against the wall, half empty.
The table was bare.
For years, I’d told myself the silence after my husband’s death was something I needed to escape.
Now it felt different.
I could hear the little clock above the stove.
The wind moving through the pear tree.
Tilly drinking from her water bowl.
I sat at the table and finished wrapping the plates.
Gabriella’s photographer arrived the next morning.
I opened the curtains, cleared the countertops, and placed fresh flowers on the dining table.
The house looked beautiful.
But when the photographer asked me to move James’s armchair away from the fireplace, I hesitated.
He had sat there almost every evening.
Reading.
Grading school papers.
Watching baseball.
