For months, I’d respected my mother-in-law’s insistence on keeping the guest room private. The morning after she moved out, I discovered she’d been keeping something from me that was quite disturbing.
The guest room finally smelled of nothing. Not Eleanor’s rose hand cream, not Harold’s aftershave, except for the faint, yeasty warmth I’d never been able to place. I brushed it off because cool October air was drifting through the open window, and the sun’s rays appeared across a bare mattress.
I stood at the foot of the bed with my hands on my hips, grinning like an idiot. Six whole months, and now the room was mine again.
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