Chapter 4
Helen carried the wet wedding album into the house and placed it on the glass dining table.
Richard looked up from his phone.
"What happened to that?"
"You tell me."
Water had swollen the cover. A thin line of moisture spread across the glass beneath it.
Helen called Megan and put the phone on speaker.
"The dining table isn't in the storage unit," she said when her daughter answered. "Neither is Grandma's jewelry box. The photograph from the stairs is gone too."
Megan was quiet for a moment.
"Not everything went into storage."
Richard lowered his phone.
Helen kept her eyes on him.
"Where did it go?"
"We had to make decisions," Megan said. "The storage unit wasn't unlimited."
It was large enough to hold bags of ruined clothing, scratched furniture, and boxes of damp papers. But somehow, there had been no space for the things Helen cared about most.
"What decisions?"
"Some things were sold. Some were donated."
The words were calm. Ordinary. Megan might have been explaining how she had cleared old food from a refrigerator.
Helen placed one hand on the wet album.
"You sold my things?"
"They were things you hadn't used in years."
"The photograph was hanging on my wall."
"The frame was old," Megan said. "It went with some of the decorative pieces."
"There was a picture inside it."
"We can print another copy."
Helen closed her eyes.
In that photograph, Megan had been eight years old. She had climbed into Helen's lap after falling from her bicycle, her face still wet with tears. Richard had made her laugh just before taking the picture.
Megan did not even remember it.
"And my mother's jewelry box?"
"It was empty."
"That doesn't mean it belonged to you."
Megan released a frustrated breath.
"Mom, I didn't know you were attached to every old object in the house."
Helen opened her eyes.
Richard was watching the water spread beneath the wedding album. He did not reach for a towel.
"The dining table," she said. "Where is it?"
"I approved that sale," Richard said.
Helen turned to him.
"It was too large for the room. And it was outdated."
"My mother left me that table."
"I know where it came from."
"Then you knew it wasn't yours to sell."
Richard leaned back in his chair.
"We replaced it with something practical. Guests need space. They don't want to move around a heavy table built forty years ago."
Helen looked at the narrow glass table between them.
Her mother's table had held birthday cakes, school projects, Christmas dinners, and the bowl of soup Helen had made for Megan after her first heartbreak.
This one held a damaged wedding album.
"How much did you get for it?"
Richard's expression tightened.
"I don't remember."
"You sold my mother's table, and you don't remember what you were paid?"
"It went toward the renovation."
Megan spoke through the phone.
"You're acting like we did this to punish you. We were clearing out things that no longer worked for the house."
For the house.
Not for Helen.
The house had become something separate from her—something Richard and Megan believed they could improve by removing every part of her that did not earn money.
Helen picked up the wedding album. Moisture ran over her fingers.
"No more guests."
Richard looked at her.
"We can discuss that tomorrow."
"No. There will be no more strangers sleeping in my bedroom. No more people using my things. No more bookings."
"You don't understand what canceling everything will cost."
"I understand what continuing has already cost me."
Silence filled the room.
Then Richard gave a short, tired nod.
"Fine."
Helen waited.
He picked up his phone again.
"The rentals are stopped," he said. "There will be no more guests."