I wanted to leave them nothing — no mess to complain about, no chore to wield against my memory.

Then I packed the blue suitcase. Not the sensible beige slacks or the oversized floral blouses I wore to hide my aging figure.

I packed three vibrant sundresses I hadn’t worn since my forties.

Strappy leather sandals. The heady French perfume Ernest had bought me in Paris, a scent I’d always deemed “too extravagant” for everyday.

And finally, a thick manila folder of legal documents my attorney, Iris Delgado, had quietly drawn up weeks before Ernest’s death, anticipating this exact scenario.

At half past four, I walked through the quiet house one last time.