The walls were gray.

The kitchen smelled of fresh paint rather than cinnamon.

The height marks I’d made for my niece on the laundry-room doorway were gone.

A real estate agent asked whether I intended to move back.

I walked upstairs and stood at the window overlooking the place where Dad’s apple tree had been.

“No,” I said.

“I don’t think I do.”

I chose to sell the property once the title issues were resolved.