The bed remained.
So did the curtains, photographs, books, trophies, and small objects that made Emily more than a name on a photograph.
Then David arrived.
He stood outside the house for several minutes before walking to the door.
Barbara opened it.
Mother and son embraced.
The next day, David came to our house.
His eyes were red.
“My mother said you helped with Emily’s room,” he told us.
He explained that he had finally gone upstairs.
He had sat on Emily’s bed for an hour.
“It was painful,” he said.
Then he swallowed.
“But I needed it.”
That evening, Barbara invited us over.
David sat at the kitchen table with several of Emily’s belongings in front of him.
Then he finally said what he had carried for eleven years.
“I blamed Mom.”
Barbara looked down.
“I told her to leave if she hated living with me,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have said it.”
David’s voice trembled.
“She was sixteen.”
“I know.”
