The one my mother bought on a trip down south fifty years ago.
The embroidered cushions on the sofa were gone.
The ones I had embroidered myself over months.
The pictures on the walls were gone.
My pictures.
Landscapes from the coast that David gave me on our anniversaries.
“What?” Emily frowned. “Did your mom move things around?”
Daniel walked to the kitchen.
He turned on the light.
The Italian coffee maker was gone.
The ceramic mugs I collected were gone, too.
The apron that always hung on the hook next to the fridge had disappeared.
“Mom,” he called out louder. “Where are you?”
They went upstairs.
Michael told me that’s when the alcohol started to wear off.
My door was ajar.
Daniel pushed it open.
He turned on the light.
The bed was made.
Perfectly made, as I always left it.
