“From what?”
“People using you.”
I looked at the framed photograph of Lily holding Noah’s hand.
“Dad, the people around me now ask permission before making decisions
about my life.”
Silence.
“That is what protection looks like.”
PART 17 — THE HOUSE
For almost a year, I kept the house exactly as it was.
Then one morning Noah’s sneakers made me angry.
Not sad.
Angry.
They had become sacred because he died before putting them away.
But Noah had never treated them as sacred.
He kicked them off because he was four.
I sat on the floor and laughed until I cried.
That weekend Margaret helped me pack some things.
Not everything.
Lily’s space book went onto my bookshelf.
Noah’s dinosaur blanket went into a cedar chest.
Ethan’s mug stayed in the kitchen.
I donated clothes.
I kept ridiculous objects.
A broken crayon.
A grocery list in Ethan’s handwriting.
One sock with a rocket on it.
Grief stopped being a museum and became something I carried.
When Mom later heard I was changing the house, she sent:
Glad you’re finally moving forward.
I deleted the message.
She still thought grief was a road with one direction.
