I did not want to trap Greg.

I wanted him somewhere he could no longer send me home to search a drawer.

On Thursday evening, Brenda made pot roast.

The smell took me back to Sundays when Greg and Brenda fought over the browned edge of the potatoes.

I wished she had cooked something I had no memories attached to.

Greg arrived carrying flowers.

“For Mom,” he said.

Brenda put them in water without asking me where I wanted them.