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I do.

I look around the room again. There’s a pale rectangle on the wall where Grandma’s dresser used to sit. The quilt is gone from the bed.

Her quilt.

I packed it this morning. It is currently in a plastic storage bin in the back of my car along with Grandpa’s pocket watch, Grandma’s recipe box, four photo albums, and a ceramic Christmas tree so ugly that Josie once offered me twenty dollars to accidentally break it.

Those are the things I couldn’t sell.

Everything else is gone: the furniture, the dishes, Grandpa’s recliner, Grandma’s china.

The house won’t technically belong to someone else until tomorrow morning.

It already doesn’t feel like ours anymore.

There’s nothing left for me here.

The realization should probably feel sadder than it does. Mostly it feels strange, like I’ve been standing backstage my life and someone has suddenly shoved me into the spotlight without giving me the script.

“What am I supposed to do instead?” I ask.

“Anything.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s your life, Noelle. You can do whatever you want.”

“I can’t, though. That’s just it. I sold this house, and I didn’t get a dime. I had to sell all the rest of the stuff in the house just to cover the cost of all of the remaining medical bills. I have nothing here. Nothing but you. And you have your own family and your own life.”

She frowns.

I stand and cross to the window.

Outside, my little car is parked at the curb. The back end is sitting noticeably lower than the front because apparently I own more than I thought I did.

For years, I knew exactly what every day would look like: medication at seven, breakfast, doctor’s appointments, laundry, groceries, phone calls to insurance companies, Grandma’s shows in the afternoon, dinner, more medication.

Somewhere in there, there was laughter.

There were card games and Christmas cookies and Grandpa pretending he couldn’t hear Grandma whenever she asked him to do something he didn’t want to do.

There was a life.

Mine.

Ours.

I never minded it.

That’s the part people don’t understand.

Everyone kept telling me what a good granddaughter I was, how much I sacrificed, how hard it must be.

But I didn’t feel like I was sacrificing anything.

They raised me. When they needed me, I stayed. It was that simple.

Then Grandpa died, and Grandma needed me more, so I stayed again.