By half past three, a white commercial moving truck sat idling in the gravel driveway of our house.

Two young men in gray uniforms carried a disassembled oak bed frame out through the front entryway and down the porch steps.

Evelyn stood in the front hall near the coat closet, holding a small cardboard box packed with my grandmother’s silver serving spoons and brass candleholders.

“They took the master bedroom dresser,” Evelyn said, setting the box down on the hall runner.

“And the velvet armchair from the den.”