“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

The eviction was about to happen, and Mark was going to feel what it was like to be discarded like a useless piece of junk. Just as he had wanted to discard the memory of my mother from this house that very morning, the sky outside began to darken with gathering storm clouds, as if nature itself was ready to greet Mark with a cold storm, as cold as the fate that awaited him on the street. The sky outside had turned a lead and gray, as if the universe were echoing the tension in our living room. The echo of Mr. Harrison’s voice firing Mark still reverberated off the walls, creating an atmosphere that was suffocating, yet for me liberating.