I pulled the top cardboard box off the stack by the foundation wall and lowered it onto the concrete floor.

Black marker across the tape on top said Chloe Living Room in my sister’s neat handwriting.

The box was packed tight with Chloe’s winter coats, framed art prints, and a few pairs of brand-new high heels still wrapped in tissue paper.

I set it aside and lifted the second one, my shoulders aching from nine months of hauling military gear through airport terminals.

That box held kitchen blenders, electric waffle irons, and glossy home decorating magazines with Chloe’s name on the mailing labels.