I appreciated the heart emoji, even if it was immediately followed by market research.
That evening I answered neither of them.
Instead, I sat in my apartment with a bowl of leftover soup and the folder from Gerald, thinking about the gray colonial, the red front door, and the little creek that had supposedly swallowed my shoe.
Eventually, I got in my car and drove to the house.
I still had my key because I’d been managing Dad’s affairs during his illness. It slipped into the lock as easily as always, though somehow I hadn’t been certain it would. I stood quietly inside the dark entryway before reaching for the light switch.
The house still smelled like him—wood, sawdust, overly strong coffee, and the familiar scent of a home lived in comfortably by one person who cared more about living there than updating it.
I switched on the lights and slowly walked through every room.
