After that, I stopped answering the phone. I barely left the porch. I’d sit for hours, staring at the sunset bouncing off George’s old Chevy pickup. Sometimes I’d whisper, “I’m still here, honey. I’m trying.”
Then, one cold November evening, a car pulled into the gravel driveway. I figured it was a neighbor stopping by. But when I opened the door, there stood Tara, looking like she owned the place. She wore fake eyelashes and tight jeans, with a suitcase in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“Hey, Mom,” she said, smiling like this was some kind of social call. “Rough year, huh? I sold the house. Too many memories.”
My stomach turned. “You sold Adam’s house?”
She sighed, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Well, technically, it was mine after he died. And memories don’t pay bills.”
She set her wine on the coffee table and flopped down on George’s favorite couch like she’d been living there her whole life.
“You don’t mind if I stay a while, right?” she asked, not really asking. “I just need a little time to reset. Men are such trash lately.”
She never asked how I was or mentioned George. She just poured herself a glass of wine and turned on the TV like she belonged there. By the following week, she had rearranged my entire living room. She took down all the family photos and packed them away, saying the decor needed to feel “fresh.”
One afternoon, I came home from the market and noticed George’s recliner was gone.
“What happened to his chair?” I asked, heart in my throat.
“Oh, that ugly thing?” she said with a laugh. “I had the trash guys take it because it smelled like the ’70s.”
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