I ate lasagna, then pie, then another narrow piece of pie that Mom cut before asking whether I wanted it.
By eight, my body thought it was midnight.
I carried my plate toward the sink.
Mom took it from me.
“You’re a guest.”
“This is still my house.”
“You haven’t lived here in fourteen years.”
“That changed quickly.”
“I maintain records.”
Dad looked toward the legal pad.
Mom pointed at him.
“No.”
He put his hands in his pockets.
I went upstairs.
My old bedroom had become part guest room, part storage unit, part museum of choices I no longer remembered making.
Pale green walls.
College sweatshirt behind the closet door.
Three swimming medals beside the desk, including one for participation.
On the dresser stood a photograph of Molly and me in matching bridesmaid dresses.
I was eighteen.
She was fifteen.
Molly was pulling a face.
I was pretending not to know her.
The photographer had documented our relationship more accurately than intended.
Dad had left my suitcase at the foot of the bed with the handle extended.
Practical affection.
I unpacked enough to suggest commitment.
Jeans in the drawer.
Toiletries in the bathroom.
Annie’s T-shirt remained at the bottom.
