I put the portrait into storage.

I didn’t burn it or tear it up.

It was part of my history, and I no longer needed to destroy evidence of a life simply because it had ended badly.

I rehung Manuel’s landscape painting near the dining room.

I opened the curtains Ofelia had kept closed to protect the furniture.

I moved the small reading chair back beside the window where I used to sit with the morning paper.

Julian visited one Saturday afternoon with a box of photographs from old family gatherings.