The house went silent.
I stood in the living room, my living room, where I had hosted Robert’s birthday parties and Thanksgiving dinners, where Daniel and I had slow danced on our twentieth anniversary because we were too tired to go out.
I looked around.
The couch, which I had reupholstered myself in 2004. The coffee table Daniel built in the garage and sanded for weeks until it was smooth. The curtains I had sewn by hand, matching the fabric to the wallpaper I chose in 1989.
Vanessa had already put yellow Post-it notes on half the furniture.
Sell. Donate. Trash.
My wedding china was in a box by the door marked DONATE.
I walked upstairs to the bedroom. Our bedroom. The bed was made. I had made it that morning out of habit.
But Vanessa had already cleared out Daniel’s closet. His clothes were gone. The suits I dry-cleaned, the ties I straightened every Sunday before church. Gone. Probably donated before his body was even cold.
I opened my own closet.
Vanessa had been in there too. Three of my dresses were missing. The good ones. The ones I wore to Robert’s wedding, to Daniel’s company dinners, the blue Talbots dress I saved for two months to buy.
