The house looked smaller when I walked in.
Maybe houses shrink when they run out of lies.
The grand staircase was still there, curving toward the second floor. The living room still smelled faintly of pine from New Year’s Eve. The tree had been taken down, but a few silver needles of tinsel clung to the rug like evidence.
I stood in the doorway and saw it all again.
Emma’s face.
Noah’s sleeves pulled over his hands.
Tyler laughing.
My mother smiling.
My father raising the volume.
For a moment, the room tilted.
Then Evelyn touched my arm.
“You don’t have to do this today.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
We walked through each room.
The dining room where my mother had hosted holidays like royal inspections.
The kitchen where Grandma Rose taught me to roll pie dough.
The hallway where I once overheard my mother telling Aunt Denise I was “too sensitive for my own good.”
