A month after my mother died, my best friend married my 68-year-old father. I called her a traitor and cut them both out of my life. Then, 0n my birthday, she showed up at my office with a black box and a warning: « Open it when you’re alone. » Inside was a secret my mother had taken to her grave.
Three weeks after my mother’s funeral, the house still felt like it was waiting for her.
I stood in the doorway watching Lydia fold my father’s shirts into careful, perfect squares.
« You don’t have to do that, » I told her.
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