I sat down without meaning to.
“My son is coming home Saturday,” she continued. “David. He has not been inside this house since he left.”
“We spoke to Patterson,” I said. “We had no business prying, but we were simply worried. We are sorry about what happened to your daughter.”
Barbara nodded, looking exhausted and holding back tears.
“The trash bag contains her things, but not all of them are trash. The black bags with green tags go to a charity for teenage girls. Clothes, books, school supplies. The unlabelled trash bags are for damaged things. I keep some personal things.”
“Duplicates. I had boxes of them. Some were in my room, others in Emily’s, and others in her brother’s room.”
“I am not throwing my daughter’s valuables into a landfill.”
Shame moved through me so sharply I almost could not breathe.
“Why clear the room now?” Anna asked gently.
“Because David is coming to say goodbye to me.”
Barbara wrapped both hands around the glass.
“He has spent 11 years avoiding that room. I thought if I emptied it, he would not have to lose Emily again while losing me.”
Anna’s expression softened, but she did not simply agree.
“Did you ask him what he wanted?”
“Then how do you know an empty room will hurt less?”
Barbara’s mouth opened, then closed.
“Yes,” Anna said. “But grief does not make us mind readers.”
Barbara looked toward the ceiling.
“You may be,” Anna said. “But you may also be deciding for him because asking is harder.”
For the first time, I understood that her plan was not purely noble or purely wrong.
It was fear dressed as control.
“Two days’ worth. The closet, a storage cabinet, and some boxes in the attic.”
Barbara looked at me carefully.
“Because I owe you more than an apology. And because Anna is right. We should sort what can be donated, but we should not empty the room completely until David sees it.”
Barbara pressed her lips together.
Then she whispered, “It’s been so hard going back into that room.”
“You won’t open it alone this time.”
That afternoon, Patterson joined us.
Emily’s room was not preserved like a museum, as I had imagined.
Dust covered the dresser, the curtains had faded, and boxes filled the closet and lined one wall.
Barbara sat on the bed while we worked.
Donation, trash, things Barbara would keep, and things we would let David decide if he wanted to have them or not.
The last group became the largest.
At first, Barbara resisted.
“He does not need all this.”
Anna held up a school trophy.
“That is for him to decide.”
“He may hate me for keeping it.”
“He may hate you more for donating or throwing it away.”
Barbara flinched, but she nodded.
As the hours passed, she began telling stories.
“Emily built a volcano for the science fair,” she said, holding a photograph. “Baking soda reached the ceiling.”
“Was she good at science?” I asked.
“She was great at it and very confident with her experiments.”
We kept several outfits, photographs, a silver necklace, and a soccer medal.
The rest went to the charity with care.
By Friday evening, the room was cleaner but not erased.
