"I should check on that," I say.
"They're fine. Hunter probably just met his match trying to carry too much at once."
Sure enough, when we head inside, Hunter's standing over a broken lamp looking sheepish while Juliet lectures him about physics and grip strength.
"It was ugly anyway," Dad declares. "I never liked the thing."
Sable looks at me and I raise my brows. She just gives her head a tiny shake. Guess we’ll deal with that one later.
The work continues in shifts. People break for water and snacks, rotating through tasks with an efficiency that comes from genuine care rather than obligation. Sable and Jessa develop an elaborate labeling system that involves color coding and subcategories. The hockey players compete to see who can carry the most boxes at once, which ends when Beck points out they're professional athletes acting like teenage boys.
"You’re just mad cause you’re old," Jett says cheerfully, balancing four boxes. He ducks when Beck whips a towel at his head.
Around noon, Sable orders pizza for everyone. We eat sitting on the floor of the empty living room, paper plates balanced on our laps, too many bodies crowded into the space. It's chaotic and perfect and makes my chest ache with belonging.
"This is nice," Dad says quietly beside me. "Seeing you with all these people who care about you."
"They're good people."
"That Silas seems solid."
I glance across the room where Silas is helping Sable move a bookshelf, taking directions without complaint. "He is."
"Definitely different from Enzo."
The comparison doesn't sting like it used to. "Very different."
Dad pats my knee with his weathered hand. "Good. You deserve someone who sees you, sweetheart."
After lunch, the professional movers finally arrive. We shift into high gear, everyone forming an efficient chain to load the truck. Years of belongings flow from house to truck in a stream of boxes and furniture.
By four o'clock, the house stands empty. Sable looks around, taking a deep breath. Watching my sister grieve this house is unbelievably hard. I stand in the bare living room, staring at the scuffed patch of wall where the couch used to be.
“Remember when Mom swore she could fit a Christmas tree in that corner?” Sable says from behind me. I hear the smile in her voice.
I huff. “She absolutely couldn’t.”
“She blamed the ceiling,” Sable adds. “I believe the wordsarchitecturally hostilewere thrown around.”
“That tree leaned like it was tired,” I say. “Every year.”
The silence stretches, familiar but not sharp anymore.
From the doorway, Silas clears his throat gently. “You need a minute?”
I consider it, then shake my head. “Maybe just… a short one. Is that okay?”
“Take all the time you need,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Sable bumps her shoulder into mine. “We’re almost done. I color-coded Dad’s things. It should be a snap when we unload.”
I smile despite myself. “Of course you did.”
The memories don’t grab me the way they used to. They sit there, warm and intact, but they don’t pull me under. I slip my hand into Silas’s and lean against him. “I think I’m ready.”
At Dad's new apartment, controlled mayhem reigns. The space is smaller but nicer, with good light and no stairs for his knees to protest. It’s part of a retirement community. Independently of me, Silas searched for the best living citation that would meet Dad’s needs. This is what we came up with. On moving-in day, there are people coming and going in golf carts, a note of Dad’s door about tonight’s 70s dance party in the rec center, and no less than three cute older ladies have stopped by with baked goods. My dad is going to be a ladies man before he knows it.
Inside his apartment, everyone works to transform boxes and furniture into something resembling home.
