basket. Dad’s reading glasses. Two framed photographs. Their medications arranged neatly on a shelf. A small electric kettle.
They hadn’t been staying there for one or two nights.
They had made a life fit into a room that had once held rakes and paint cans.
I kept my voice calm.
“How long?”
Mom looked at Dad.
“Almost four months,” he said.
I turned away for a moment.
Four months.
Every first Monday, I had sent them money.
Every Sunday, I had called.
Mom had told me about tomatoes from the
