My mother-in-law blocked the entrance to my new apartment and screamed that her son had bought it for her, ordering me to leave.

The green guest room looked beautiful in afternoon light. My photos were back on the console. Grandma Ruth’s mug sat safely on its shelf. My cabinets were arranged by my hand again. The chandelier held only light.

No lace.

No dust cover.

No insult.

On the island sat a small trash bag.

Inside were the last remnants of Evelyn: one embroidered pillow, two continue reading …