respond.
Two weeks later, they appeared at my door dressed in black—not mourning clothes, but outfits chosen for appearances. Mother hugged me awkwardly. Dad surveyed the living room. Vanessa headed directly to the refrigerator.
“You look awful,” she said. “You should sell this place.”
Dad cleared his throat. “That’s actually why we’re here.”
I stared at him.
He explained that grief made people “irrational,” my lake house had “too much space,” and Vanessa and her husband needed “a fresh start.” Mother added that my children wouldn’t want their aunt to
