That hesitation tightened the room again. Beth shook her head. Dad, this house is too much. You live here alone. Every room is full of mom.
You keep saying you're fine, but you barely use half the place. I'm not discussing this like I'm not standing here. I'm scared for you. The words came out sharper than Beth intended, then softer. I thought Anna would help you move forward.
Her eyes returned to Anna. Now, I don't know if she's another reason you'll stay exactly where you are. Anna felt the sentence land. Not because it was fair, because part of it might be. She looked at Tom, then the folders.
I'm done with the project. Tom turned toward her. Anna, no. Beth shouldn't have to wonder whether I'm giving professional advice or protecting something personal. You don't need to leave.
Yes, I do. Tom's jaw tightened. Beth looked stricken now, but Anna continued. I'm not going to become the reason the two of you stop listening to each other. Tom started to speak.
Anna shook her head. Please. She picked up her bag. At the front door, Murphy appeared with his leash. Anna almost laughed.
Of course. He dropped it at her feet and planted himself in front of the door. Not this time, buddy. Murphy looked up at her. Anna crouched and wrapped both arms around his neck.
He leaned against her chest, warm and trusting. For a second, staying would have been easier. That was the problem. Anna stood, handed the leash to Tom, opened the door herself. Murphy whed once behind her.
She did not turn around. By late afternoon, Beth received confirmation from the listing agent. The open house was scheduled for Saturday. The house now had 3 days before strangers would begin walking through it, deciding whether it looked like somewhere they could live. Anna wondered if Tom would finally decide the same thing.
For most of that afternoon, Tom and Beth barely spoke. The house had never felt so large. Beth sat at the kitchen table scrolling through messages from the listing agent. Tom stood at the sink drying the same coffee mug long after it was dry. Finally, Beth put down her phone.
You could have told me. Tom turned. I did. No, you said you'd think about selling. I did think about it and and I never said yes.
Beth stared at him. You heard I'll think about it and turned it into Dad is ready. I was trying to help. I know. Do you?
The question came out sharper than either expected. Beth stood. This house is too much for one person. The yard, the stairs, the repairs. You spend half your time fixing rooms you barely use.
I'm 56, not 90. That's not what I mean. Then say what you mean. Beth looked toward the living room, toward the chair near the window, the coat by the back door. The photograph on the mantle where Margaret stood between father and daughter, laughing at something outside the frame.