They packed their belongings while I checked the house for obvious damage.
The leather sofa seemed unharmed.
My kitchen was reasonably clean.
But there were scratches on the hardwood floor near the dining table.
Someone had moved Thomas’s old rocking chair onto the deck.
And the framed photograph of our family, usually displayed above the fireplace, had been put inside a cabinet.
I found it beneath a stack of board games.
Madison was standing behind me when I took it out.
“Mom, I didn’t know he’d moved that.”
I looked at the picture.
Thomas stood beside me on the dock.
Madison was twelve, holding a fishing rod almost as tall as she was.
All three of us were laughing.
“Did you know strangers had been sleeping in our bedroom?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
I returned the photograph to the mantel.
Then I turned toward her.
“You could have asked me to try renting the house.”
She wiped her eyes.
“You would have said no.”
“Probably.”
“Then we would have lost it.”
I stared at her.
“Madison, you’re talking about losing a house you don’t own.”
Her expression tightened.
“It’s my childhood home.”
“I know.”
“Dad loved it.”
“I know that too.”
She began crying.
