No fake perfume lingering in the hallway. No passive-aggressive Post-its on the fridge about how the dishwasher “should” be loaded. No 3 a.m. screaming from Brandon’s room about “lag.”
Silence can be weird when you’re used to constantly bracing for the next explosion.
For the first few nights, I kept waiting for Tracy to burst in, to complain about the noise of my Netflix show, to tell me I was doing something wrong.
She didn’t.
She couldn’t.
It finally sank in: I could arrange the furniture however I wanted. Hang whatever art I wanted. Cook whatever I wanted without commentary.
I started claiming rooms.
Brandon’s old lair? I scrubbed it down (with gloves; there are some things bleach can’t fix), painted the walls a warm neutral, and turned it into a home office. A real one. My desk by the window. Shelves lined with textbooks and actual designer stationery I bought for myself because I could.
Sierra’s Instagram-ready bedroom became my dream closet. Full-length mirror. Shoe racks. My mom’s clothes that Grandma had saved, hung carefully next to my own.