By six thirty that evening, I was standing in what used to be our bedroom, pulling my cotton sweaters off the top closet shelf.

Clara Sterling stood in the open bedroom doorway with her hands tucked into the front pockets of a dark linen apron.

She watched every shirt I folded and placed in my single blue canvas maternity suitcase on the unmade bed.

“Leave the yellow baby blankets in the nursery dresser,” Clara said, her voice quiet and dry.

“Those stay with the house.”

I laid the folded cotton blanket back on the wooden chest without looking up at her or saying a word.