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Lucy watches the car disappear.

I watch Lucy.

Then she turns and looks at me.

“Well,” I say. A stunning opener. “I made a list.”

Her expression doesn't change.

“Not for fun,” I clarify. “Well, technically for function, which can be satisfying, but…” I stop. “Do you want to see your room?”

She shrugs.

I pick up the suitcase and lead her inside.

She steps over the threshold carefully, like the house might do something unexpected. I understand the impulse.

“This is the living room,” I say, because apparently I've become a realtor. “Kitchen through there. Bathroom down the hall. Your room is this way.”

She follows at a distance of exactly six feet. I notice because noticing things is safer than feeling them. When we reach Maggie’s old room, Lucy stands in the doorway.

I've already made three mistakes, so I keep my mouth shut.

She walks in, still holding Bun. Her eyes move across the bed, the dresser, the window. “This was Mommy’s?”

“Yes.”

“Did she like it?”

I look around.

Maggie hated this room by thirteen. Loved it by fifteen when she painted one wall lavender without permission. Hated it again by seventeen because everything in Redwood Run was “suffocating.” Loved it after Ben died for reasons neither of us discussed.

“She changed her mind a lot,” I say.

Lucy considers that. “Mommy does that.”

A small, painful smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “Yes. She does.”

For half a second, a moment of connection passes between us.

Then I ruin it.

“I thought we could unpack your clothes, then have a snack, then review your school schedule, and after that maybe we can talk about preferred dinner options.”

Lucy hugs Bun closer. “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s okay. We can still establish⁠—”

“I don’t want to unpack.”

“Right. Fine.” I nod once. “Unpacking can wait.”

“I don’t want dinner options.”

“Also fine.”

“I want Mommy.”