The morning of the move, the house felt strange from the moment I woke up. Final, maybe. Or simply honest for the first time in too long.
Dad was up early, carrying boxes with the same competent silence he brought to every task. Mom packed breakables as though she were being forced into exile by history rather than consequence. She barely looked at me all morning. I preferred it that way.
Lily stayed mostly upstairs, which I allowed. She had no obligation to perform graciousness for the people who had tried to remove her from her own room. Around noon, while the movers were loading lamps and winter coats and one ridiculous porcelain swan Mom had kept since 1998, Dad came to find me in the kitchen.
He stood near the table for a while before speaking.
“I want to apologize to Lily before we go.”
I studied his face.
He looked older than he had a month ago. Not because stress transforms people theatrically overnight, but because some kinds of avoidance drain a man over time, and once it fails him, the failure shows all at once.
“Then do it right,” I said.
He nodded once.