The drive to Millbrook felt different. The streets looked smaller and the houses appeared more weathered. Mom chattered about the neighbors, her book club, and everything except the dark circles under her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide.
“I made your favorite,” she said as we pulled into the driveway. “That potato soup with the—”
But when we walked into the kitchen, my smile died.
Dirty dishes were stacked everywhere — on counters, in boxes… they were even balanced precariously on the windowsill. “Oh my God, Mom! What happened here?”
Her face went red.
“The sink’s been acting up. I’ve been washing everything in the bathroom, dear.”
When I turned the faucet handle, water trickled out like an old man’s sneeze. “How long has it been like this?”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Oh, you know. A few weeks.”
“A few weeks?” I knelt down and peered at the cabinet under the sink. The pipes looked like they hadn’t been touched since the Carter administration.
“I forgot.”
The next morning, I dug through Dad’s old toolbox in the garage. The metal was cool in my hands, each tool carrying memories of Saturday mornings when he’d let me help with mini projects around the house. He’d been gone three years now, but his presence still lingered in the organized chaos of nuts and bolts.
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