It broke open on the third day, the way these things do, over something small.

We were in the garage, sorting our father’s tools, and I said something — I don’t even remember what, something about donating the good table saw — and Terry set down the box he was holding and said, quietly, “You don’t get to decide that.”

“It’s half mine,” I said, stupidly, and he turned around, and I saw that his face had gone somewhere I hadn’t seen it go since we were young.

“That’s not — Janet, do you have any idea what the last two years were?” His voice was shaking, and Terry’s voice never shook.