The house was sold.
Nothing in the room changed. Outside, cars passed on the street. Someone laughed at the reception desk. I had expected a sound, some signal large enough to mark the end of thirty-two years.
Instead, Martha touched my arm.
“You can stay through the agreed move-out date,” she said. “They know you need a few more days.”
I nodded. I had arranged movers for Saturday. Three weeks after Thanksgiving, the last box would leave.
That afternoon, I bought two sturdy notebooks. In one, I listed what had to go to the apartment. In the other, I wrote phone numbers, appointments, and instructions in case I forgot something.
I had once taught seven-year-olds who believed writing a plan could make any large task less frightening. They were right more often than they knew.
On Thursday, the time written on the Cedar Grove brochure passed while I was packing winter coats.
Stuart called twice. I let it ring.
He called again that evening.
“Mom, you missed the appointment.”
“I know.”
“They held a place for you.”
“I didn’t ask them to.”
His breathing grew louder against the phone. “Jennifer spent hours arranging it.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“Can we come talk?”
“Not tonight.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Is something going on?”
I looked around the nearly empty bedroom.
“Yes,” I said. “We’ll talk soon.”
I ended the call before he could ask more.
Friday, Lily called from school during her lunch break.
“Dad’s upset,” she said. “Mom says you were rude about Cedar Grove.”
“I told him I wasn’t going.”
“Good.”
There was noise behind her: lockers closing, children calling across a hallway.
“Lily, I need you to know something. I love you and Max. Whatever you hear this weekend, that won’t change.”
