Every item of my wife’s clothing was gone.
Marin’s dresses were in that wardrobe. Marin’s perfume was on the vanity. Marin’s framed degree was on the nightstand on Amara’s side.
I heard footsteps and stood back into the dark of the landing, and my sister went past on her phone saying, “Mum reckons Ives’ll get it once he sees the paperwork,” and laughing.
I went down the back hallway, past the pantries, to a narrow door standing ajar.
A single cot. Two cardboard boxes. A folding table.
Amara was sitting on the edge of that cot folding a blouse, and the wool coat I bought her for our seventh anniversary was laid over the table because there was nowhere to hang it.
And then my mother appeared in the doorway.
“Family breakfast tomorrow. Dining room, eight o’clock.”
Amara did not turn round. “I know.”
“Eat in here first.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not having an uncomfortable scene in front of relatives.”
Amara closed her eyes. “That’s my dining table too, Hesper.”
And my mother laughed, one short flat sound.
“My son bought every inch of this house. Don’t confuse being married to him with owning anything.”
I had my hand over my own mouth in that hallway.
