Ethan touched my shoulder as Adam disappeared down the basement stairs.
"He's not wrong, you know. This place has been holding its breath for twenty years."
"So have I," I whispered.
"This place has been holding its breath for 20 years."
Diane was already in the living room, lifting framed photographs off the mantle, her fingers lingering on the one of Laura and the girls.
"You kept everything exactly the same," she murmured. "Even her reading chair."
"I couldn't move it. Couldn't move anything."
"That's not healthy, you know. Holding on like this."
"You've been telling me that for two decades, Diane."
"Because I love you. Because Laura would want you to live."
"You kept everything exactly the same."
I didn't answer. I never did.
Instead, I climbed the stairs slowly, my hand trailing the banister, and stopped outside the pink door at the end of the hall. The girls' room. Untouched. Frozen.
I pressed my forehead against the wood and closed my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to no one. "I'm sorry it took me this long."
Then, as I turned the knob and stepped inside the small museum of a life I never got to finish, Adam's scream tore through the house from the basement below.
"Dad! Come here right now!"
"I'm sorry it took me this long."
I rushed down the basement stairs two at a time, my heart pounding against my ribs.
"Adam? What is it? What happened?"
