Furniture.

Leo’s drawings.

My own clothes.

For seven years, his voice had been the bridge between me and a world I could no longer experience visually.

That morning, I was standing halfway down the staircase when Leo appeared behind me.

“Leo?”

No answer.

I heard his sneakers against wood.

“Sweetheart, I need to get past.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The words hurt, but they were not unusual.

Leo rarely allowed me to hug him.

Sometimes, when Douglas was nearby, he called me Mom.

When we were alone, he often refused.