I found my mother-in-law, Marjorie, and eight other relatives moving through my house like they were cleaning out a store. Closets were wide open. Suitcases were already stacked in the hallway. On the dining table, they had laid out keys, envelopes, and a handwritten list:
“clothes — electronics — documents.”
“This house belongs to us now,” Marjorie said loudly. “Everything Bradley owned belongs to us, too. You—get out.”
A cousin named Declan picked up a suitcase and smiled as if he were being kind. “Don’t take it personally, Avery. It’s just the way things are.”
I stared at the couch where Bradley used to read and the framed photo of us together. They were stepping all over my grief like it was a cheap rug.
“Who let you in?” I asked. My voice sounded hollow.
Marjorie pointed to the door. “I have a key. I’ve always had one. Bradley was my son.”
Suddenly, I heard someone shuffling through the papers in Bradley’s desk.
