I came back because someone had to.

The house was still in the family's name, but no one else wanted to touch it.

My mother had passed away a few weeks prior, quietly and asleep.

My father was still alive, technically, but no longer capable.

The stroke had taken most of his speech and all of his warmth.

He now lived in a small care home three hours south.

We hadn't spoken in years.

I told the solicitor I would handle the clearing out, thought it would take a weekend, thought

it would feel mechanical.

But standing in the entryway now, I could already tell.

The house hadn't changed.

Not really.

It was clean, even dusted in places. Someone had been tending it, probably my mother, until the very end. I hadn't stayed overnight in years, but instead of sleeping in the guest room, I chose my old bedroom, the nursery, the one we shared.

Jamie's crib was still there, up against the far wall.

The other one sat beside it, untouched.

The blankets tucked in tight, a small stuffed lamp perfectly aligned at the center of the

mattress.

The mobile above the crib still spun when I opened the door,

catching the air just enough to turn.

I stood there, watching it rotate in a slow, silent circle.

I found a sealed box in the closet, buried behind old blankets and a yellowed wedding dress.

The tape was brittle with age, one side had peeled slightly.

...