That was nine years ago. I never crossed their threshold again.

Rebecca called once, about six months later, to ask whether I’d seen a box of Christmas ornaments in my storage unit. When I said no, she ended the conversation within minutes.

I mailed birthday cards to the grandchildren for a few more years, then stopped when none were ever acknowledged. Every Thanksgiving, Eleanor called to ask whether I’d eaten dinner.

I always lied and said yes — even the year supper was peanut butter on white bread and the last apple from a discount grocery bag.

Now Eleanor was gone. And somehow, after all those lonely years, she’d still managed to put Birchwood in my hands.

Chapter 3 — Handled Quietly

It took eleven days before I finally arrived. Eleven days of paperwork, of hunting down the only suit jacket I still owned, of standing quietly at Eleanor’s graveside, of letting Caroline Briggs guide me through every legal document with a kindness I’d almost forgotten people could show.