Mom packed leftover programs.
Margaret stood near the photographs talking to Robert.
My family no longer fit neatly into one definition.
Some people had been there from the first terrible day.
Some arrived late and earned limited places through changed behavior.
Some remained at a distance.
That was okay.
On the drive home, I passed the exit toward the cemetery.
I almost turned.
Then I kept driving.
Not because I was leaving them behind.
I was going home.
The house looked different now.
Lily’s jacket was no longer by the door.
Noah’s sneakers were no longer under the bench.
Ethan’s mug still sat in the kitchen cabinet.
I used it whenever I wanted.
On the mantel were photographs, not shrines.
Beside them was a small foundation plaque bearing three names.
ETHAN MILLER.
LILY MILLER.
NOAH MILLER.
Below them:
Safety is love made practical.
That line came from something Ethan once said while installing an
