He was getting married.
The woman was named Shirley.
And the worst thing was that I already knew her.
I was friends with my mother.
I didn’t understand how they had gone from sharing memories about Mom to talking about marriage so quickly.
But my father seemed happy.
And I was too tired of losing people to start another war.
Shirley moved into our house.
At first it was kind.
Too kind.
Then the little changes started.
A picture of Mom disappeared from the room.
Then another.
“I’m reorganizing,” Shirley explained.
A box of mother’s clothes was donated without asking me.
Her favorite cups disappeared.
A perfume that still retained its smell as well.
There were fewer and fewer traces of her.
And there was something even more uncomfortable.
Shirley couldn’t stand looking at me for too long.
One afternoon I heard a friend say to her:
“The girl is very much like her mom.
