A fresh start.
Then he added, “Honestly, you lived rent-free in our house for thirteen years. If anything, you owe us.”
That night, for the first time, the house no longer felt like home.
By the third week, I began packing.
I folded my clothes into old cardboard boxes.
I wrapped family photos in newspaper.
Some nights I cried on the bedroom floor until I had nothing left.
Other nights I stared at the ceiling, wondering where I had failed Caleb.
On the twenty-eighth day, Mason appeared at my door.
“The buyers want to close sooner,” he said. “You need to be out by Friday.”
Friday was two days away.
There was only one place I had not packed yet.
The attic.
Caleb’s old things were still up there, and I had been avoiding them because I knew the memories would hurt.
I climbed the narrow stairs and began moving boxes.
