“Aaron—”
“You knew I was there every night.”
Dad pushed back his chair.
“We’re not discussing old grievances. You can pay your share or find another place to stay.”
I looked at him.
Then at Mom.
“All right.”
I went upstairs.
I packed one duffel bag.
A few shirts.
Jeans.
Work clothes.
My schoolbooks.
I left the rest because I believed the argument would pass.
Families argued.
People said things they regretted.
I thought I’d be home again within a week.
I walked out the back door and crossed the forty feet between our houses.
The light above Thelma’s back step was on.
She opened the door before I knocked.
Her eyes went to the duffel bag.
Then to my face.
She said nothing for a moment.
Finally, she stepped aside.
“Spare room’s made. Wipe your feet.”
I went inside.
Thelma never asked me to choose between her and my parents.
She never told me to stop loving them.
A few evenings later, while we washed dishes, she said, “Give them some time.”
I looked at her.
“How much?”
“A month, maybe.”
“And then?”
She handed me a towel.
“Then you go over and talk to them. Somebody in that family needs to start acting like a grown-up.”
I agreed.
I didn’t know my parents had already decided to leave.
A month later, I bought a Mother’s Day card.
It had a watercolor picture of flowers beside a mailbox.
I spent a long time deciding what to write.
Finally, I put:
“Happy Mother’s Day. I’m sorry we argued. I hope we can talk. Love, Aaron.”
I walked across the yard and knocked on my parents’ front door.
A man I didn’t recognize immediately opened it.
He was in his early sixties, wearing a brown cardigan and reading glasses.
He held a newspaper in one hand.
Then I recognized him.
Homer Dobbs.
The mail carrier who had walked our neighborhood for years.
“Mr. Dobbs?”
He looked at me.
“Aaron?”
I held up the card.
“Is my mom home?”
His expression changed.
He lowered the newspaper.
“Son, didn’t your parents tell you?”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Tell me what?”
Homer glanced toward the living room.
Then he looked back at me.
“They sold the house.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I bought it from them. They moved to Florida.”
I looked past him.
The sofa still stood by the front window.
My mother’s old curtains were hanging in place.
The lamp beside the couch was on.
Everything looked familiar.
But my family was gone.
“When?”
Homer hesitated.
“We closed recently. They took the last of their belongings before I moved in.”
I stood there holding the card.
My mother had moved to another state without telling me.
My father had gone with her.
Miranda had gone, too.
Nobody had called.
Nobody had left a message.
Homer looked deeply uncomfortable.
“I thought you’d arranged to stay with Mrs. Rusk.”
I swallowed.
“I moved over there after an argument.”
He lowered his eyes.
Then he said something that changed the way I understood everything.
“Your father and I signed the sale agreement in early March.”
I looked at him.
“March?”
He nodded.
“I remember the date. It was the week of my retirement party.”
My parents had confronted me about the grocery money in April.
They had already agreed to sell the house before that argument.
The demand for three hundred dollars hadn’t been the beginning of a financial plan.
It had been a convenient way to make my departure seem like my own choice.
Homer seemed to understand what I’d realized.
He went quiet.
Then he said, “There’s something they left for you.”
He disappeared into the hallway.
When he returned, he carried a cardboard box.
It was an old beverage distributor’s box with worn edges and packing tape across the top.
Written in black marker was one word.
“Thelma’s.”
My mother’s handwriting.
Not Aaron.
Not my son’s things.
Thelma’s.
I took the box.
“Thank you, Mr. Dobbs.”
He looked at the Mother’s Day card in my other hand.
“I’m sorry, son.”
I nodded.
Then I walked back across the yard.
Thelma was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Sunday newspaper.
She looked up.
Then she saw the box.
Her eyes moved across the word on top.