"You sound as though you're afraid the house will hear you celebrating," Mrs. Alvarez said when they finished.
"I'm afraid that if I believe it too much, I'll discover I misunderstood something."
"Then read the papers again tomorrow. Ask another question if you need to. And when you've answered it, let yourself be happy. You can be careful without refusing joy."
Everett looked toward the window, where their worn little Christmas tree still stood despite January's passing weeks. He had always thought caution was the price of being responsible, but Mrs. Alvarez was right that caution could become its own kind of prison. The next morning he called Leah with two final questions. By Monday, he had signed the agreement and received a move-in date.
The days before the move were surprisingly difficult. Everett packed dishes that Clara had chosen, wrapped photographs in old towels, and discovered school papers hidden in drawers he had forgotten existed. Every box seemed to contain another version of their family, including the version in which three people had shared the apartment and the version in which two people had learned to survive there. He worried that leaving would feel like abandoning the place where Marlo had last heard her mother's voice.
Marlo seemed to sense his sadness. One evening she sat beside him on the living-room floor as he sorted photographs and asked whether they had to leave all their memories behind. Everett told her they could take the photographs, the blue mug, the little Christmas tree, and anything else that mattered. She looked around at the stained ceiling and the window with its old paper snowflakes, then asked a question he had not expected.
"Can memories come with us if they're not inside things?"
He thought of Clara laughing in the kitchen, of her singing while she washed dishes, and of the night they had held newborn Marlo between them and been frightened by how much they loved her. "Yes," he said. "I think those are the ones that travel best."
Marlo accepted the answer and reached for another box. She placed the stuffed rabbit inside, reconsidered, and pulled him out again because he might be afraid of moving in the dark. Everett smiled as he watched her carry the toy to bed. The apartment had held their grief, but it had also held the first small moments of their recovery, and he understood that leaving did not require him to erase either one.
On moving day, Mrs. Alvarez arrived with sandwiches, tape, and enough instructions to supervise a professional crew. Daniel and two coworkers had volunteered to help carry the heavy furniture, while Everett had borrowed a modest moving van from a friend at a reduced rate. He tried to pay everyone for their time. They refused the extra money, accepted the sandwiches, and worked efficiently enough that the apartment was nearly empty by lunchtime.