But there were groceries inside.
Food for the children when they came home.
“Leave it.”
Luis looked at my list.
“You have it marked.”
“I changed my mind.”
The washer and dryer stayed too.
So did the guest beds.
I realized, as we walked from room to room, that ownership and belonging were not always the same thing.
I had paid for the beds.
But Emily had slept in the guest room during thunderstorms.
Jack sometimes sprawled across one on Sunday afternoons reading comic books.
Taking everything simply because I could would not make me freer.
It would only make the house emptier.
In the end, I took the furniture from my bedroom, the antique sideboard that had belonged to Arthur’s mother, two lamps, my desk, one sofa, one armchair, a small television, several boxes of kitchenware I had brought from Illinois, my grandmother’s dishes, and the Italian coffee maker.
I stood in front of that machine longer than I should have.
Then I put a red sticker on it.
Luis raised an eyebrow.
“That one matters?”
“More than it should.”
By ten thirty, the truck was full.
The house looked different, but not stripped.
There were empty spaces.
