Brooke stared at my phone as though the screen had opened a door beneath her feet.
At the top of the file were two words: JENNIFER’S SUNDAYS.
My daughter recognized her mother’s name immediately.
She also recognized the photograph beneath it: our old dining table set for six, steam rising from a pot roast, every chair empty except mine.
“Why did you call it that?” she asked.
Before I could answer, a black sedan turned into the parking lot.
Brooke followed my gaze.
A tall man in a navy coat stepped out carrying a leather case and a cream-colored envelope.
Daniel Mercer had handled the sale of my house, the closure of my accounts, and the documents that allowed me to leave without anyone tracking my new address through ordinary financial records.
He was also the only person who knew what I intended to do with the money.
Brooke’s phone buzzed again.
Austin’s message stretched across the screen.
DON’T LET HIM SIGN ANYTHING.
She read it twice, then looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
“You should ask your brother.”
Daniel approached the landing, nodded to Brooke, and handed me the envelope.
“Everything is ready,” he said.
Brooke stepped between us.
“Ready for what?”
Daniel did not answer.
He had the patient expression of a man paid to protect other people’s private decisions.
I opened my apartment door wider and invited them both inside.
It was more space than Brooke had been given a moment earlier, but she did not seem relieved.
She entered slowly, studying the room as if it contained evidence of a second life.
There was no second life.
There was only a smaller one.
A brown sofa.
A round table with two chairs.
Jennifer’s lace curtain over the window.
A shelf of mystery novels.
A pair of walking shoes beside the door.
The framed picture of Italy rested near Jennifer’s photograph because I had finally booked the trip we never took.
I was leaving in October.
Alone.
Brooke noticed the travel brochure beneath the frame.
“You’re going to Italy?”
“Yes.”
“With who?”
“Myself.”
She looked wounded by the answer, as though independence were another accusation.
Daniel placed his leather case on the table.
I set my phone beside it and removed the cinnamon roll from the bakery bag.
The smell of sugar and cinnamon filled the room.
For ten years, I had bought pastries by the dozen whenever family was supposed to visit.
That morning, I had purchased exactly what I planned to eat.
Brooke remained standing.
“Dad, please explain what’s happening.
Austin is panicking.
Aunt Hannah says there are lawyers involved.
Rachel thinks you sold the house because someone manipulated you.”
“Someone did manipulate me,” I said.
Her eyes widened.
“Loneliness.”
Daniel looked down, hiding what might have been a smile.
