She reached for the box.
It was sitting at the bottom of the staircase, where she had placed it on Wednesday night so I would walk past it every time I came downstairs. A medium moving box, taped shut, with my name written across the side in her neat, slanted handwriting. NAOMI. Like a label on a shelf. Like something to be returned to the store.
There were five more just like it stacked in the garage. She’d packed them all herself. She’d made sure I knew it.
« Here, » she said, picking up the box and pushing it toward me with both hands. « Your things. I did most of the work for you. Your father can help you load the car. Let’s not make a scene in front of the children. »
Maddie looked at the box. Then she looked at me.
« Aunt Naomi? » she said. « Are you going somewhere? »
I didn’t take the box.
I had spent three years taking things from my mother. Taking her tone. Taking her sighs when I came home late from work. Taking her little comments about how « some people » never had to worry about rent. Taking the blame when the furnace died, as if my living there had somehow worn it out.
I wasn’t taking anything else.
« You should open it, Mom, » I said.
