Two days after the funeral, I took the children to get ice cream, hoping this small treat would bring a moment of normalcy to our grief-stricken routine. On our return, I nearly crashed the car.
Our belongings were piled on the sidewalk in black garbage bags, like discarded trash waiting to be collected. Emma’s favorite blanket spilled out of one of the bags, its pink edge fluttering in the breeze.
“Mommy?” she said in a trembling voice. “Why is my teddy bear outside?”
I parked randomly and rushed to the front door. My key didn’t work. The lock had been changed.
I knocked, then I banged my fist against the wood. “Hello? Good morning!”
