We weren’t in Spain anymore. We were in St. Augustine, Florida, where the air smells like rain and hot pavement. I climbed the stairs to the third floor with my shoes in my hand, trying to delay the moment I had to go inside.
When I finally opened the door, I didn’t find the quiet home I expected.
I found my mother-in-law, Marjorie, and eight other relatives moving through my house like they were cleaning out a store. Closets were wide open. Suitcases were already stacked in the hallway. On the dining table, they had laid out keys, envelopes, and a handwritten list:
“clothes — electronics — documents.”
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