I didn’t cry in the elevator.

I didn’t cry in the parking lot.

I put the papers in the black document case, locked it, and drove home.

The garbage bags were heavy.

Derek had more clothes than I remembered: eleven button-down shirts, four pairs of dress shoes he never wore, a jacket with the tag still on it.

I dragged the bags one by one down the front steps and lined them up against the curb next to the recycling bin.

The neighbor across the street, Mr.