The man hesitated.
He was broad-shouldered, wearing a knit cap, and old enough to recognize trouble when it stood in a doorway holding garbage bags.
“Ma’am?” he asked me.
Before I could answer, Mom snapped, “She’s leaving.”
Then she leaned closer.
“You were your grandfather’s responsibility, Clara.
He’s gone now.
This house belongs to us.”
For one terrible second, I was five again.
Standing beside a cracked blue suitcase.
Watching taillights disappear.
Waiting for a weekend to end.
Then I remembered Grandpa’s hand closing around mine in the hospital.
“When they come, don’t argue at the door.”
I set my coffee down.
I lowered the bags onto the hallway bench.
“All right,” I said.
Mom smiled.
She thought I had surrendered.
When they dropped me off, I was wearing yellow rain boots even though the sky was clear.
Chloe was eight.
She stayed in the car with a handheld game, her ponytail pressed against the window.
