She lifted one hand in the smallest wave.
Then they turned the corner, and for the first time since she had moved in after Harold died, she let herself believe she might not go back.
Not if she could help it.
Not if she had to cross every state line in America to keep breathing as herself.
The first three months after Harold’s funeral, Dean had behaved like a dutiful son in one of those television movies seniors adored on rainy afternoons.
He brought casseroles.
He fixed the porch light.
He said, “You shouldn’t be alone right now, Mom.”
She had agreed because grief makes even smart women tired.
Her house had grown too quiet.
Every cup in the cabinet still belonged to Harold somehow.
His flannel hung behind the bedroom door.
His half-finished crossword remained on the side table because she could not make herself throw it away.
Dean and Melissa suggested a temporary stay.
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