Vanessa barely spoke.
I didn’t judge her.
Grief can make people strange.
It can make one person scream and another person silent.
So when she left the reception early, I defended her when relatives whispered.
“She lost her husband,” I told them. “Give her some room.”
Two days later, shortly after seven in the morning, my doorbell rang.
I opened the door wearing my robe.
Jeffrey and George stood on my porch.
Both were still in pajamas.
Jeffrey wore blue ones covered with little dinosaurs.
George wore green pajamas with trucks.
Between them and the steps sat a huge black garbage bag stuffed with clothes.
Vanessa stood several feet away.
Her car was running in my driveway.
I stared at her.
“Vanessa?”
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I need you to take them.”
I looked at the boys.
“For today?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“For the week?”
