But I kept thinking about three things.
A nine-year-old boy who lost his childhood on Smithville Road.
A fourteen-year-old girl in Kettering whose uncle had missed her birthdays so he could send mine.
And my mother, who didn’t stop to calculate anything when she stepped into that street.
On Thursday evening, I asked Marissa to meet me at the house on Linden Street.
She came in slowly, like she hadn’t been inside in years. Her eyes went straight to the recliner.
“I’m not here to fight,” I said. “I’m here to make an offer.”
She crossed her arms. “Okay.”
“Arthur is drawing up the paperwork to transfer the house to you. It was your grandmother’s. It should be your kids’ now.”
Marissa didn’t move.
“I’m keeping the insurance money,” I said. “Julian asked me to use it for nursing school, and I’m going to. I’m keeping the box, and the vest, and the photographs. And I’d like to keep one thing from this house. The Scrabble board.”
