She was trying to decide which version of me had come home.

The quiet one who would ask questions and let her answer.

Or the new one who had finally run out of patience.

I walked to the counter and picked up the envelope from the county office.

It had arrived two days earlier. Claire had been standing in the kitchen when I brought in the mail, and the second she saw it, she reached for it a little too quickly.

“What’s this?” I’d asked.

“Junk,” she said. “Some property tax thing. I’ll handle it.”