“You’re back,” she said.
I stayed in the doorway for a beat, my heels hanging from one hand, my head still light from not eating, my whole body so exhausted it barely felt inhabited.
“What are you doing in my home?” I asked.
Marjorie ignored the question as if I hadn’t spoken.
She tapped the dining table once with two fingers and said, very clearly, “This house is ours now. Everything of Bradley’s too. You need to leave.”
I looked around the room slowly.
Fiona was rifling through drawers.
Declan was zipping up one of Bradley’s travel bags.
One of the younger cousins carried framed photographs under his arm as if they were party leftovers.
No one stopped. No one looked ashamed. No one even looked surprised to see me.
It was as if I had been buried along with my husband.
“Who let you in?” I asked.
