He never once looked at me.
When the door closed behind him, I stared at the empty space on the floral wallpaper.
For the first time in thirty years, my kitchen looked incomplete.
And I couldn’t explain why.
The Pressure to Leave Home
That afternoon, I was outside working in the garden with my daughter, Clara.
The autumn sun was already losing its warmth, and dry oak leaves scratched across the gravel driveway.
Clara knelt beside me, pulling weeds from around the late-season tomatoes.
“Maybe we should think about a smaller place for you, Mom,” she said.
I kept working.
“A condo in town would be much easier to heat in November.”
I pulled a stubborn clump of crabgrass from the soil.
“Your father built the greenhouse on this property with his own hands.”
“I know.”
Her voice was gentle, but there was something behind it.
“Mom, ninety-four thousand dollars is a lot of property tax to carry alone.”
I stopped for a moment.
Ninety-four thousand dollars.
The number had become the centerpiece of every conversation since Arthur died.
Taxes.
Maintenance.
Repairs.
Selling.
Moving.
Downsizing.
