We moved in August.

Our old house had too many corners that held the wrong memories: the spot where Harold had stood with his mug, the kitchen sink where Tessa had cried, the hallway I’d watched as he disappeared.

We sold it after talking through our finances and moved into a smaller place with a sunny kitchen, a modest garden, and a school bus stop at the end of the street.

Tessa chose the room with a window facing an oak tree.