So I didn’t.
I changed passwords on household accounts.
Patricia recommended new locks after they moved.
I gathered important documents into the fireproof box.
I put Harold’s study back the way I wanted it.
His photographs went onto the shelf again.
His books returned to their places.
The little wooden organizer went back beside his old reading chair.
One afternoon, I found Daniel standing in the doorway looking at the room.
“I didn’t know she moved all of this,” he said.
“You were living here.”
“I know.”
That was the problem.
He had been present for everything and somehow absent from all of it.
On the twenty-eighth day, a moving truck pulled into the driveway.
Victoria supervised while Daniel carried boxes.
Connie from next door pretended to water the same patch of flowers for forty-five minutes.
I didn’t blame her.
The whole neighborhood had probably been wondering what was happening.
Victoria’s last trip through the house was for her handbag and coat.
She stopped in the foyer.
“I hope you’re happy.”
There are moments when the perfect sharp answer presents itself.
I had several available.
I used none of them.
“I hope you build a life that doesn’t require taking someone else’s.”
Her expression hardened.
“You always wanted Daniel to choose you over me.”
“No.”
I looked at my son, who had just come in behind her.
“I wanted him to choose decency. That’s different.”
Daniel lowered his eyes.
Victoria walked out.
He stayed.
For a few seconds, we stood in the foyer surrounded by the marks their boxes had left on the carpet.
Then he reached into his pocket and placed his house key on the table.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
It was the first clean apology I’d heard from him.
No “but.”
No explanation.
No mention of Victoria.
No request attached.
I wanted to hug him.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
“I love you,” I said. “And I’m very angry with you.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Both can be true.”
He nodded.
Then he left.
The house felt enormous that evening.
I made chicken soup.
The first pot had gone cold the day Victoria handed me the notice, and for some reason I had been thinking about it ever since.
I chopped celery at the same counter.
Used Harold’s blue-striped towel.
Then I carried a bowl to the table and ate alone.
I expected loneliness.
What I felt was space.
There’s a difference.
The following week, I changed the locks.
Not dramatically.
No locksmith arrived while Victoria screamed from the driveway.
Nothing like that happened.