They brought down his wooden easel, his box of watercolor pads, his winter coats, and three plastic tubs full of his toy train tracks.

My mother stayed inside behind the heavy drapes of the living room window.

I could see the outline of her figure pressed against the glass, watching every box go into the truck.

My father walked down the brick path alone, carrying a thick dark leather binder under his arm.

He stopped three feet away from me, his wingtip shoes resting on the gravel edge.

“The movers can leave the bedroom furniture,” Charles said, his tone low and strictly businesslike.