After My Father’s

my laptop, and the framed photograph of my parents from the bedside table.

Miles followed me to the door.

“You’re unraveling,” he murmured.

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m documenting.”

Outside, Harold loaded my bags into his truck.

As we drove away, police passed us heading toward the house.

Harold glanced in the rearview mirror.

“You okay?”

I looked down at continue reading …