The afternoon light slanted through my study window, catching dust motes suspended in air that smelled of old paper and lemon polish. I was grading history papers I’d kept for fifteen years. Nostalgia, maybe.
Or the stubborn hope that my teaching days still mattered. The house settled around me with its familiar creaks, and I’d almost forgotten I wasn’t alone here anymore. Then I heard the front door open downstairs.
Christopher and Edith had been living with me for eight months, but they moved through these rooms like ghosts, barely acknowledging my existence. We exchanged polite nods in the kitchen, nothing more. Their sudden footsteps on the stairs made my shoulders tighten.
Edith appeared first in my doorway. Christopher stood behind her with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes finding the bookshelf, the window, anywhere but my face. “Francis, we need to talk.”
Her voice had that particular quality.
Sweet poison mixed with authority. The tone that precedes bad news or worse requests. I removed my reading glasses slowly.
“About what?”
Christopher shifted his weight. “We’ve been thinking about family. About how we should spend more time together.”
“Quality time,” Edith added, moving into the room uninvited and perching on the arm of my reading chair like she owned it.
“Before life gets too busy.”
“Before what, exactly?”
I kept my voice level, but my historian’s mind was already cataloging inconsistencies. They had avoided me for months. Why the sudden change?
“Christopher, tell him about Miami,” Edith said. My son finally met my eyes, and what I saw there was desperation poorly masked by forced enthusiasm. “Miami, Dad.
Remember when we went when I was twelve? Let’s recreate those memories. A whole week together, fully paid.
Our treat.”
I set down my pen carefully. “You hated that trip. Said it was boring.
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