Sometimes, when things were quiet, I wondered what my parents were doing now. Caitlyn still occasionally relayed news, though less often. Clara and Michael had separated, apparently, after one too many fights in the cramped apartment. Michael moved in with a friend. Clara bounced between “fresh starts,” always promising the next plan was the one.
My parents stayed in their small rental. My dad picked up part-time work at a hardware store, the kind of job he used to sneer at when he thought he deserved better. My mom worked evenings at a grocery store deli, slicing meats and telling customers to have a nice day with a politeness she never offered me when she was furious.
Caitlyn told me my mother sometimes asked about me quietly now, like she’d learned that pushing got her nowhere. She asked about my career. About whether I was happy. She asked if I had kids, but she never asked for my address.
Maybe the no-contact notice had scared her. Maybe time had softened her pride. Maybe she was simply tired.
One afternoon, when Noah was napping, I found myself standing in the hallway staring at the closet where we kept old boxes. I pulled one down, sat on the floor, and opened it.