“We needed money.”
“Then you should have sold your property.”
“We do not have anything worth that much.”
“That is not an argument for selling mine.”
He was quiet.
“Did you know some of Dad’s clothes were in the sale?” I asked.
“I knew clothes were in the closet.”
“That was not my question.”
His voice dropped.
“Yes.”
I had suspected it.
Hearing it still broke my heart.
“Why?”
“Because you keep everything, Mom. You keep his shirts, his old tools, boxes of letters. The house is like a museum.”
I looked around the bare living room.
“It is my museum.”
“You need to move on.”
“You do not get to choose the price of my grief.”
He had no answer to that.
I ended the call.
For a while, I thought that would be the last time we spoke.
Then Brittany called me alone.
Her voice sounded different without Ryan beside her.
“I want to tell you something,” she said.
“All right.”
“I knew the furniture was yours.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“I did not know about the clothes. Or the letters. Ryan told me most of it was stuff you had been meaning to get rid of. I should have asked you. I did not because I wanted the trip, and because if I asked, you might say no.”
I appreciated the ugliness of the truth.
It was cleaner than an excuse.
