“Why?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
I looked around at the half-empty shelves, paperwork, and boxes. It all fit together.
“You’re sick. You’ve been lying to us. Something’s wrong. What is it?”
Mom froze.
“Oh, Monica.”
“You’re sick. You’ve been lying to us.”
“You’re getting everything in order.”
“No.”
“You wrote letters. You’re clearing closets. You’re giving things away.”
“I am not dying.”
“Then tell me what all this is.”
Mom looked at the boxes around us, then lowered herself onto one.
“You’re getting everything in order.”
“I’m moving.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“I’m selling the house.”
Dad’s jacket slipped from my hands.
“No.”
“I’m moving.”
Mom’s eyes narrowed. “No?”
“You can’t just sell it.”
“I can, Monica. It’s my house.”
“It’s Dad’s house too.”
She went quiet.
Then she said, “Your father is dead, honey. And I am still here.”
“I can, Monica. It’s my house.”
