Chapter 2
I peeled the label from the box. The paper curled between my fingers, but I didn’t throw it away.
Grant stood in the storage-room doorway, wearing the weary impatience of a man who believed he had done his best. “I just needed the movers to know where everything went. Lydia’s landlord gave her almost no notice. I didn’t have time to ask you first.”
“You had time to pack my clothes.”
He didn’t answer. His eyes moved to the nightstands. “Your father’s things were handled carefully.”
It was meant to comfort me. Instead, it made something inside me go cold.
My father’s belongings had been moved into storage, preserved but removed from life.
Lydia was sleeping in my bed, wrapped in the scent of my laundry detergent.
When I returned to the bedroom, she was awake, propped against the pillows with a glass of water in her hands. She gave me an apologetic look.
“I told Grant I could manage in the guest room,” she said. “He said I haven’t been sleeping, and the bathroom is closer up here.”
Her voice was gentle, as if every word had been chosen with care for my feelings. Yet she made no move to get out of the bed. She didn’t ask where I would sleep.
“How long are you staying?” I asked.
She looked down at the rim of her glass. “I don’t know yet. Finding a place and figuring out work after a divorce takes time. You know I hate being a burden.”
“Not forever,” Grant said from behind me.
“A few weeks,” Lydia added, smiling faintly. “At most.”
At dinner, Lydia sat beside Grant and passed him the hot sauce I always kept in the refrigerator door.
He thanked her without noticing where it had come from.
I was given the chair at the end of the table—the one my father used whenever he visited.
Neither of them asked whether I had eaten since the funeral.
Halfway through the meal, I said I had a headache and went upstairs.
Lydia was already discussing where she wanted to put a reading chair in the bedroom.
Two more boxes sat outside the guest room. I crouched beside them, looking for pajamas, when I found a dark blue folder beneath a stack of sweaters.
It wasn’t mine.
Inside was a printed moving inventory in Grant’s handwriting.
Master Bedroom — Lydia.
Guest Room — Claire.
Master Closet — Clear left side.
Walnut Nightstands — Storage.
Family Photographs — Box and label.
Remaining Items — Storage Room.
The date was printed in the upper-right corner.
The instructions had been sent to the movers at 10:14 the previous morning.
At 10:14, I had been sitting in the funeral home, choosing the lining for my father’s casket.
Grant had not run out of time to ask me.
He had made sure I could not say no.