Posted in

Part 6: Twelve Christmas Place Cards in My Own House—But None for Me

<span class="fs-story-title-part-prefix">Part 6:</span> Twelve Christmas Place Cards in My Own House—But None for Me

“Small cabinet.”


“And Howard’s chair?”

“By the window.”

She nodded as though we were arranging something entirely ordinary. I loved her for that.

At home, the packing began.


Melissa watched me wrap a serving platter.

“You won’t need all of that in an apartment.”

“I’ll decide what I need.”

“We’ve been using it.”

“Yes.”

I folded another sheet of paper around the rim. She stood there long enough to hear that no further explanation was coming.

Daniel tried a different approach.

“Dad wouldn’t have wanted strangers living here.”


I lowered the platter into its box.

“Your father didn’t marry a house.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Then don’t make him say things because you don’t want to say them yourself.”

He sat down across from me. For a moment, I thought he might finally speak plainly.

Instead, he asked whether selling could wait until summer.


I sealed the box.

The hardest things weren’t the valuable ones. They were the pencil marks inside the pantry door, the bent measuring spoon Howard insisted still worked, the coat hook Daniel could reach when he was seven.

Ruth photographed the height marks while I held a lamp.

We took the hooks down carefully and repaired the small holes.


I couldn’t carry thirty-one years out whole. I could choose what came with me.

Melissa became helpful during the final week.

She labeled boxes and offered to call movers. Twice, she asked whether I had signed anything about selling yet.

I said I was following my attorney’s advice.

Her helpfulness thinned after that.

On moving morning, snow had hardened along the driveway. The men laid runners over the floor and carried out the furniture I had selected.

Howard’s chair went last.

Daniel held the front door while it passed. His eyes followed the worn wooden arms.

Then the truck doors closed.

I stood on the porch with my handbag against my ribs, watching thirty-one Christmases turn slowly toward the street.

“Mom.”

Something in his voice made me stop.

Melissa was behind him, holding a folder.

“Tell her,” she said.

Daniel didn’t move.

“Tell me what?”

He rubbed his mouth.

PART 7
STORY

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *