Haven’t sold it yet.”

“What are you hanging on to it for?”

“It’s a nice new Audi. Why sell it?”

“Because you don’t need it and it’s just going to go down in value the longer you hang on to it.”

“So why don’t you take it?”

“I have a car.”

“An old one. Your mom’s car is less than two years old—”

“I can’t . . . drive her car . . .” My voice fades away. I’m suddenly tired. I don’t have words to explain. Dad wasn’t supposed to be in the senior home yet. Not for a couple more years. Mom wasn’t supposed to be gone. She was the young one. “I mean, I will, once I’m there. I’ve got a shuttle reserved to get to the house. Is the key still under the flower pot on the porch?”

“Yes. And you remember the code for the alarm?”

“My birth date backwards.”

“That’s it. There won’t be any food in the house but all the utilities are still on, and things should be clean. I’m paying for a housekeeper each month, so it better be clean.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“So I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Yes.” I hesitate, wanting to say more, but not knowing what to say. There is so much pressure in my chest. It’s heavy and immense. The weight makes it hard to breathe. “I’ve missed you.”

Silence stretches. I don’t think he’s going to say anything. And then he surprises me. “It’ll be good to see you,” he says gruffly.

A lump fills my throat. “It’s going to be a treat.”

“Be safe.”

We say good-bye, and I hang up feeling better.

And worse.

Because I don’t remember what safe feels like anymore.

• • •

The woman seated next to me on the plane has two very large carry-on bags that are bursting at the seams. She struggles to make both fit—one above us and one beneath the seat in front of her. I pretend not to notice as she repeatedly shoves her platform sandal into the top and side of the carry-on at her feet to make it fit beneath the seat.