car was absent, though remnants of hasty packing were evident—discarded packing materials on the front lawn, the garage door ajar revealing half-empty storage shelves.
“Looks like they’ve been busy,” Helen observed as we approached the front door.
Using my key—an act that still felt natural despite the property’s imminent transfer—I entered the house that had been in our family for two generations.
The immediate impression was abandoned chaos. Empty picture hooks on walls. Rectangular dust outlines where furniture had stood. Packaging materials scattered across floors.
“They’ve cleared out the major
