She had been ready for two years. She had needed the push. Davis calling was the push. She closed the laptop and stood and walked through the house one more time. Not grieving this time, assessing. The particular clear-eyed inventory of a woman who was deciding what to carry and what to leave behind. What she would take: Ethan's school photos, all eight of them. His drawings, the framed one from the living room and the ones in his room. The chess set. His books. The box of her mother's things that lived on the highest shelf of her own closet — her mother's letters, her mother's watch, a photograph of the two of them at a beach in Michigan when Sophia was six. Nothing of the Kane family. Nothing that needed his signature to belong to her. What she would leave: the emerald dress, hanging in the back of her closet where she had put it the night she got home from the hospital, unwashed, still holding the shape of the worst anniversary of her life. The jewelry Adrian had given her ove
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