the house Ryan and Cassie were standing in had been mine for thirty-one years.
I bought it when Ryan was two and Patricia still wore her hair in a short brown bob she cut herself because money was tight.
We refinished the kitchen cabinets on our own.
We planted the oak in the front yard.
I built the shelves in the garage.
Patricia picked the bedroom curtains after three weekends of arguing gently over whether blue was too cold or cream was too boring.
She won.
She usually did.
Patricia had a way of seeing through people that I envied.
She could read a room before I had even found a place to set my coat.
She knew who was nervous, who was lying, who was showing off, and who needed someone to hand them a plate without making a big show of charity.
I used to think some of
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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