They were spending heavily on the wedding, and Daniel asked whether they could stay with me temporarily.
Six months.
Maybe a little longer.
It made financial sense.
The house had plenty of room.
I missed having people around.
I agreed immediately.
“Stay as long as you need.”
Looking back, I wish I had added one sentence.
This is still my home.
At first, having them there was wonderful.
Morning coffee with Daniel.
Vanessa cooking dinner occasionally.
Conversation in rooms that had been silent for years.
For about two weeks, the house felt alive again.
Then Helen’s photograph disappeared.
It had hung above a narrow cabinet in the living room for nearly twenty years.
Not our formal wedding portrait.
A candid picture taken much later.
Helen was standing beside the old oak tree laughing because Daniel had sprayed her with a garden hose.
I came downstairs one morning and saw an abstract print in its place.
Blue and silver shapes.
Expensive-looking.
Meaningless.
I stared at it.
“Vanessa?”
She came from the kitchen.
“Yes?”
“Where’s Helen?”
For a second, she looked confused.
Then she followed my gaze.
“Oh.”
I would grow to hate that little word.
“Oh.”
As though every boundary she crossed happened accidentally.
“I moved the photograph.”
“Where?”
“Downstairs.”
“Why?”
She smiled.
“I wanted to brighten the room.”
“The room was fine.”
“I know.”
She stepped closer.
“It just felt a little… sad.”
“Sad?”
“All the old photographs.”
“There were three.”
“I’m not criticizing.”
“It sounds like you are.”
Her smile tightened.
“I just thought some fresh energy might be good for everyone.”
I looked at the abstract picture.
Then at her.
“Put Helen back.”
Vanessa paused.
“Of course.”
The photograph returned that afternoon.
I believed the issue was settled.
It was not.
The following week, my leather armchair disappeared.
There was nothing attractive about that chair.
Brown leather.
Cracked left arm.
One cushion that sagged lower than the other.
Helen had threatened to replace it every Christmas for fifteen years.
But it fit my back perfectly.
I read in that chair every afternoon.
When I returned from the hardware store one Tuesday, a modern cream-colored accent chair stood in its place.
It looked beautiful.
It was also so stiff that ten minutes in it made my lower back hurt.
“Where’s my chair?”
Vanessa looked up from her laptop.
“Storage.”
The answer came instantly.
“Why?”
“It was falling apart.”
“It was comfortable.”
“It looked terrible.”
“So do I some mornings.”
She did not laugh.
“Robert, you deserve nice things.”
“I had a nice thing.”
“That?”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“You’re being sentimental.”
“That’s allowed in my house.”
Daniel walked in during the argument.
“What happened?”
Vanessa smiled immediately.
“Nothing.”
I pointed at the chair.
“She moved mine.”
Daniel looked at Vanessa.
“Babe.”
“What?”
“You should have asked Dad.”
“I was trying to help.”
Daniel turned to me.