My brother had been dead for less than an hour when my mother demanded his blind wife hand over his papers. Then his widow looked at me and said, « Don’t let her read them first. »
The kitchen was quiet that Sunday afternoon, the kind of quiet that let old memories sneak in through the cracks. I sat at the table with a shoebox of family photos, sorting them into little piles by year. My coffee had gone cold an hour ago, and I hadn’t noticed.
