“What a lovely house. The kids love homes like this,” she said while walking through my living room, her fingers brushing lightly along the back of a chair, as if testing its place. She didn’t sit.
She didn’t settle. She moved slowly, deliberately, her eyes traveling from the windows to the staircase, then toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Perfect,” I replied.
“There’s one just like it for sale nearby.”
Her smile paused just enough to show it had been rehearsed. Then it returned, thinner this time. “Oh,” she said, glancing toward Evan as if expecting him to carry the moment forward.
He didn’t. He stood near the doorway, hands in his pockets, his attention fixed somewhere below eye level, as though the floor held something more important than the conversation happening in his own mother’s house. Marla continued walking.
“The layout is so open,” she added. “And the stairs… kids love that. It feels comfortable.”
Comfortable.
The word lingered in the air, too familiar for someone who didn’t live here. I watched her pause at the edge of the dining area, her gaze shifting outward toward the yard, measuring distance, light, access. Not noticing.
Not appreciating. Measuring. Evan cleared his throat quietly, but said nothing.
I remained where I was near the table, my hands resting against the back of the chair I had just pulled out for them. The house was quiet in a way it hadn’t been when Evan was younger. Back then, silence came naturally.
Now it felt interrupted, like something being rearranged without my permission. Marla turned back toward me. “It’s just such a good space for a family,” she said, softer now, almost thoughtful.
“You don’t really find homes like this anymore.”
I nodded once. “They’re still around,” I said. “Just not always where people expect them.”
Evan shifted slightly, as if that sentence had landed somewhere he didn’t want to acknowledge.
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