I parked in my parents’ driveway behind my father’s old sedan, which had a slow oil leak that left a dark circle on the concrete. I carried the two bags of groceries up the steps, using my shoulder to push the heavy oak front door open.
The smell of lemon polish always dominated their hallway, masking the scent of the damp cellar beneath the floorboards.
In the living room, Miriam was pouring tea from a heavy silver coffee pot that sat on the mahogany sideboard. The pot was highly polished, catching the yellow light from the brass floor lamp, its ornate spout curved like a swan’s neck. It was a family heirloom, passed down from my great-grandmother, and Miriam kept it gleaming even when the pantry was nearly empty.
“We are in here, Nora,” my mother called out.
Gerald sat in his plaid armchair by the cold fireplace, his eyes fixed on a muted television screen showing the local evening news. He did not look up when I set the grocery bags on the dining table, though his fingers immediately went to his wool collar, tugging it loose.
