The bed remained. So did the faded curtains, several books, framed photographs, and one shelf of objects that told the truth about the girl who had lived there.
Barbara stood in the doorway.
“I thought an empty room would be kinder.”
Anna slipped an arm around her.
“Sometimes kindness is leaving the door unlocked.”
Saturday morning, a silver sedan pulled into Barbara’s driveway.
David stood beside the car for several seconds, staring at the house as if it belonged to a nightmare he had memorized.
He crossed the lawn and folded into her arms.
I started to lower the curtain, but Anna stopped me.
“Let them have privacy,” she said.
We stepped away from the window.
Later that afternoon, someone knocked on our door.
David stood on the porch.
“My mother said you helped with Emily’s room.”
He looked across the street.
“I went upstairs,” he continued. “I sat on Emily’s bed for an hour.”
Anna asked, “Was it too much?”
That evening, Barbara invited us over.
David sat at the kitchen table with Emily’s personal items spread in front of him.
“I blamed Mom for 11 years,” he said. “Emily left because they argued. I decided that made Mom responsible.”
Barbara stared at her hands.
“I told her to leave if she hated living with me so much,” she said.
