My kitchen table.
Boxes I had never packed.
“Mom,” Tommy finally said, his face turning pale. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
Those words hurt more than anything else he could have said.
Not, “Are you okay?”
Not, “Why are you back?”
Just: “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
As if everything depended on me being gone.
Sandra glanced nervously toward the truck.
“We were only trying to—”
“Trying to what?”
She looked away.
That morning, I had expected to be flying to Oregon for two peaceful weeks with my friend Martha. Four years had passed since James died after forty-five years of marriage, and the house still carried pieces of him everywhere.
The kitchen where he always burned toast.
The dining room where Tommy had celebrated birthdays.
The living room that disappeared beneath wrapping paper every Christmas morning.
Martha had spent months convincing me to visit. Eventually, I agreed.
