And then Chloe laughed — an actual laugh, bright and delighted, in the room where we had just buried him.

“You wiped his mouth for six months,” she said, “and you got a music box?” My mother laid two cool fingers on my wrist, a gesture pretending to be comfort.

“Your grandfather understood who was capable of handling real assets, dear.” My father didn’t even look up.

“You can clear your things out tonight,” he said.

“We’re listing the house this week.” I looked at the three of them, and I said nothing at all.

I have thought since about that silence, about how completely they misread it.