“Let her sleep,” Daniel answered. “She deserves it after taking care of the house all night.”
They opened the door.
The house was dark except for the upstairs hall light I always left on so nobody would trip. Daniel called out, slurring a little.
“Mom?”
No answer.
Emily flipped on the living room lamp and frowned.
The room was not empty. It was worse. It was different.
The Persian rug from my old house was gone. The embroidered cushions were gone. The framed coastal paintings David had given me on anniversaries were gone.
“Did your mom move things around?” Emily asked.
Daniel walked into the kitchen. The Italian coffee maker was gone. My ceramic mugs were gone. The apron that always hung by the refrigerator was gone.
“Mom?” he called louder. “Where are you?”
Then they went upstairs.
My room was ajar. Daniel pushed the door open and turned on the light. The bed was made, but the closet was empty. No clothes. No shoes. No books on the nightstand. No glasses. No rosary. No toothbrush. Nothing.
It looked less like a room than an outline where a life had been erased.
“What the hell?” Emily whispered.
Then Daniel saw the letter on his pillow.