Eleanor started humming along to a soft tune on the kitchen radio.

She believed our family was finally healing.

She believed Mark was a grieving widower struggling to keep the rain out of his daughter’s bedroom.

I sat down at my wooden desk and set the glossy folder next to my brass lamp.

I took the crayon drawing out of my shirt pocket and flattened it on the desktop.

The words Sea Star stared back at me.

Mark didn’t have a rotting roof.