Tracy’s “meditation room”—which had mostly been a place where she sat on a yoga mat and watched Real Housewives on her iPad—became my yoga studio. I put actual plants in there. Her faux fiddle-leaf fig went to the curb.
I replaced the towels.
I bought the nice, thick ones she’d always complained were “too heavy” and “a waste of money.” White, fluffy, folded just so in the linen closet.
I smiled every time I walked past them.
At night, I’d stand in the doorway of the living room and imagine Grandma scolding me for leaving my shoes in the hallway, Grandpa grumbling about the Sox, my mom curled up on the couch with a book.
Sometimes it hurt. A lot.
Sometimes it felt like closure.
One afternoon, the doorbell rang.
It was Elise.
She stood on the porch with a suitcase in one hand and a casserole dish in the other.
“Heard you have room,” she said.
I laughed.
“I have three,” I said. “Pick one.”
She moved into the guest room they’d once used. It felt right.
We fell into an easy rhythm.
She worked remotely on her own stuff. I worked my Starbucks shifts, took my classes, and slowly relearned how to live in my own house without expecting someone to nitpick every move.