I rang the bell. Inside, it chimed brightly, absurdly cheerful. The door opened to reveal my brother-in-law, Timothy, shirtless, chewing chips, irritation written across his face.
“Oh. It’s you,” he muttered, stepping aside.
Inside, my living room had been transformed into an operation. Boxes stacked neatly, furniture labeled, strangers lifting pieces of my life without acknowledgment. Raymond stood in the center, surveying it all with approval.
“We’re moving forward with the transfer,” he said plainly.
Transfer—like I was excess inventory.
Patricia came down the stairs holding my jewelry box, inspecting its contents with false interest. “These are… simple,” she said. “You may keep them. We have no use for reminders.”
Her eyes shifted to the medals on the wall above the fireplace—my service, my years. “Gerald,” she called, “take those down. They don’t suit the room.”
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