Inside were two old brass numbers.
A 1.
And a 7.
They had once been attached beside the front door of my mother’s house.
They weren’t valuable.
But they were the only part of that house my father and Lisa were ever going to receive.
Six weeks earlier, those same numbers had still been screwed into the brick beside Mom’s door.
And about a month before she died, I had overheard a conversation that changed the way I looked at both my father and my aunt forever.
I had come home from college unexpectedly.
Mom’s chemotherapy had been especially difficult that week. Dad had texted me saying everyone was exhausted, so I decided to surprise them.
I stopped at the grocery store, bought enough food for several days, unlocked the front door, and quietly stepped inside.
Mom was asleep upstairs.
I could hear the white-noise machine humming through her open bedroom door.
