The living room is cold and still. Stiller than it’s ever been, somehow. Blankets neatly folded over the couch. Glass coasters stacked on the end table, beside a framed photo of Sheila and me as babies. A vase on the coffee table that didn’t used to be there, empty. There are breakable things all around us now, I realize, that were never there when we were younger.
No one’s home. There’s no real reason to tiptoe. But I do.