The document bore the official seal of a commercial real estate firm in northern Virginia.

The property address, the lot dimensions and the interior square footage were typed in neat black lines across the grid.

Down in the inspection signature box, the date was stamped in dark blue ink: November twelfth.

David had died on the ninth of November.

We’d held his military memorial service on the morning of the fifteenth, only three hours before my family showed up at Elmwood Lane with four hard-shell suitcases.

Julian had ordered a formal financial valuation of my home three whole days before my husband was put in the ground.