This was my mother’s house. I was there today for the first time in almost seven years, visiting a stepfather to whom I was never close.
To my surprise, almost nothing has changed. The furniture is the same and in the same place. The pictures, both on the walls and side tables, are unchanged as well. None of the rooms have been painted a different color. None of the drapes have been replaced for more stylish patterns. The only thing that’s different is the woman walking through the front door, using her own key.