Glasses sat abandoned on the sideboard. Chicken bones were piled onto napkins. Rice had been ground into the rug Helen had saved months to buy. Empty beer bottles lined the windowsill.
Near the front door, Max’s old dog bowl still sat on the floor.
The dry food inside had swollen overnight from spilled beer.
I picked it up, carried it to the trash, and washed my hands.
Melissa walked into the kitchen wearing one of Helen’s old robes.
I froze.
It was pale lavender cotton, with tiny embroidered flowers at the cuffs. Helen had worn it every Sunday morning. After she died, I folded it carefully and placed it in the cedar chest at the foot of my bed.
Melissa leaned against the counter and yawned.
“Morning, Mr. Bennett. You’re dressed up. Going somewhere?”
I stared at the robe.
“Take that off.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“That belonged to my wife.”
