“He’s not broke,” I said.
“Probably not,” Claire said. “But that’s not what matters on Thursday. What matters is whether the judge believes him.”
Ezoic
That night, I went back to the house with Dad.
Claire had finally said I could start cleaning up, now that everything was photographed and the estimates were in.
Dad brought the broom and the cardboard box he’d left by the door. And a pair of thick work gloves.
Ezoic
“Let me do the glass,” he said.
“I can do it.”
“I know you can. Let me.”
So I let him.
I sat on the bottom step of the staircase and watched my father kneel on the living room floor and pick up my grandmother’s mirror, one piece at a time. He did it slowly. Carefully. He didn’t sweep the big pieces. He picked each one up by hand, in his gloves, and laid it in the box like it was something alive.
