He was standing next to his wife, Valerie. She was wearing a black dress that was far too tight for a funeral, complete with high heels and red lips. Steven had his arm around her shoulders as if protecting her, but his eyes—his eyes weren’t looking at his father’s casket. They were looking at our house.

I was sitting in the front row, my hands clasped in my lap. I had cried so much the first two days that I had no tears left, just an enormous void in my chest and the scent of the coffee Robert drank every morning, still clinging to my blouse.