Part 2

After her death, it had come home with her belongings. Those things were in our guest room, waiting for me to become capable of deciding what went where. I wasn’t capable yet. There were clothes to sort, papers to read, people to notify. Everyone seemed to have a sensible list. I kept thinking about the things that wouldn’t be on any list, like the last ordinary conversation we’d had before illness began deciding how long she could talk. The drive home was familiar enough that I didn’t need to think about it. I passed the turn I’d used for visits and kept going. That was when the finality caught me. For months, every errand had been arranged around getting to her. Now I had an afternoon full of food nobody particularly wanted and no reason to take that road. At a red light, I looked at my phone. There was no message from Paul asking when I’d be home. I told myself he was giving me space. I had become rather accomplished at supplying considerate reasons for things he hadn’t bothered to explain. We’d been married fourteen years. I could still remember when his confidence had felt like shelter. He knew how to make a reservation, settle a complaint, or talk to someone who’d put us at the wrong table. I’d liked that he seemed so certain. Over time, his certainty had spread into subjects where I would have preferred a vote. Money, for example. Paul managed the household accounts because he said the monthly administration didn’t bother him. At first, I was grateful. Teaching produced enough paperwork without bringing bank statements into bed. My salary went into the joint account. He handled the bills. I knew the broad outlines, or thought I did, and left the details to him. During Mom’s decline, that arrangement had become an excuse not to look. I knew care cost money. I knew we’d paid some expenses directly. When Paul said things were tight, I accepted it. My mother’s finances, however, were more complicated than he understood. My grandfather had built a substantial logistics business and placed family assets in a trust that provided for Mom and would ultimately pass into my control. I knew the structure existed. I had an appointment with her attorneys the following morning. I didn’t yet know the current valuation or everything the transition would require. Paul knew her as a woman with a modest house and an old sedan. He had never shown much interest in the distinction between not spending money and not having it. Mom hadn’t corrected that impression. Neither had I. It hadn’t seemed a subject for casual conversation while she was struggling through another course of treatment. I turned onto our street.

"The house looked much as it always did: traditional brick, untidy edges along the lawn, garden beds that needed attention."

Paul had been promising to deal with the outside work when his schedule eased. I’d made similar promises about the guest room. Mine, at least, contained things I was afraid to touch. I pulled into the driveway and switched off the engine. For a moment, I watched a leaf caught beneath the windshield wiper. Then I lifted the sandwich box. My purse slid down my arm as I got out, and I had to set everything on the roof to find my keys again. It was the sort of minor inconvenience that would normally have earned a muttered complaint. That afternoon, I simply stood there until I could arrange myself. I wanted to enter the house without needing anything from anyone. No reassurance, no tact, no explanation of why I was quieter than usual. I wasn’t expecting Paul to know the perfect thing to say. After fourteen years, I knew he disliked situations he couldn’t improve by sounding confident.