I said yes — not for a house, not for money. For the boy who once walked me two miles home in the rain and never complained once about his ruined shoes.
His children never trusted a word of it. When Desmond passed away without warning, his daughter stood over me and said it plainly.
“Get out. You’ve embarrassed our mother’s memory long enough.” His son carried my suitcase outside and left it in the dirt.
“Please,” I asked, “can I at least take his photograph?” “No,” she said.
“Nothing here belongs to you.” I walked out wearing the very dress I had picked for my own burial.
I moved into my late sister’s old trailer along the county road. His absence followed me into every corner of it.
