Winter clothes into the guest-room closet.

Photographs came home.

Everything else stayed.

At the office, I gave thirty days’ notice and provided Sarah and David’s contact information for the remaining items.

The manager checked the file.

“Do they know?”

“They will.”

“You want us to contact them?”

“Yes.”

I paid the final month.

Then drove home with Michael’s red toolbox buckled into the passenger seat.

It had been stored away for almost four years.

When I set it on the garage workbench and opened it, I smelled wood, metal, and the faint oil Michael used on his tools.

That was when I cried.

Not exactly because of Sarah.

I cried because I realized how much of my own life I had been pushing aside to create more room for hers.

Two weeks passed.

October became November.

The calls slowed after Sarah and David took over their phone accounts and realized I wasn’t reversing course.

I missed Leo terribly.

That was the deepest pain.