Later that night, Elise asked about the small patch of paint above the doorway.

“Trevor knocked a hole there with a hockey stick when he was twelve,” I explained.

“Mom,” Trevor protested, laughing.

“You promised never to tell that story.”

“You broke a lamp and tried to blame the cat.”

We laughed until we were tired.

I realized the house was finally holding memories that didn’t require Roger to be standing in the center of them.

There was another matter I had not known how to discuss with Trevor.