She hesitated, then gave a small satisfied smile, as if my manners meant surrender.

“Of course. Take your time.”

I closed the door. I did not slam it. I closed it the way I had closed every door in that house for eighteen years, gently, with both hands. Then I leaned against it and breathed.

The hallway looked unchanged.

The photos on the wall looked unchanged:

Tyler at our wedding.

The kids at graduation.

A trip to Maine that I now realized I could barely remember my husband being fully present for.

My gaze moved to the office doorway.

On the wall, inside a simple black frame, hung the copy of the deed to this house.

My father had insisted I frame it years ago.

“So you never forget what’s yours, Debby,” he had said.

Back then, I thought it was sentimental.

I crossed to the kitchen, picked up my phone, and called my sister, Margaret.

She answered on the second ring. “Deb?”

“Margaret, I need you here. Now.”

“What happened?”

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