Page 24 of Remain

“I’ll stay,” she assures me. “We’ll sort what we can. Together.”

I lean into her shoulder without thinking, exhaustion finally catching up to me.

Outside, the house creaks softly, settling around us, like it can finally let go and somewhere beneath the grief, beneath the anger and the endings swirling inside of me, something else stirs.

9

Savannah

Morning arriveswhether I’m ready or not.

I wake before my alarm, unsure if I ever really slept, the house already awake before I am. I listen to the pipes ticking, the furnace kicking into second stage, while something mechanical hums in the background. It’s the soundtrack to winters of my childhood and a quiet reminder that time is still very much doing its job.

Aunt Carol stayed the night. We made makeshift beds on the floor like we were kids again, bundled in blankets that smelled like familiarity. It felt important to be here, one last night under this roof and to honor the house the way Mom always wanted, together, with family.

Today is paperwork.

That’s what I tell myself as I pull on jeans and a sweater, hair twisted into something passable. That’s what I repeat while I drink coffee that tastes wrong in a mug that my momshould be sipping tea out of while we game plan Christmas Day deliveries.

Just paperwork.

The realtor arrives at nine. She’s efficient, kind in a practiced way, already apologizing for the timing like that changes anything. We sit at the dining room table, the same one where my mother used to read the paper and tell me stories she pretended were casual.

I sign where she points.I initial where she circles.My name looks unfamiliar each time I write it, like it belongs to someone else, someone steadier, more capable of letting go.

“This releases the property. After today, it officially transfers.”

I hesitate for half a second too long.

Then I sign.

The pen scratches across the page, loud in the quiet room.

That’s it.

The house is no longer mine. It’s no longer ours.

The movers arrive shortly after. The truck idles at the curb, too large for the street. I stand on the porch and watch them unload dollies and blankets, cheerful in the way people are when this is just a job to them.

Aunt Carol hovers nearby, giving directions, answering questions I can’t bring myself to engage with.

“Donation pile goes first,” one of the movers says.

I nod.

Boxes I helped sort yesterday are carried out along with clothes my mother loved but no longer wore, kitchen gadgets she swore she’d use again, books she read once and insisted she’d revisit. Watching them leave feels strange and irreversible.

I duck back inside and move through the house quickly now, heart pounding, adrenaline taking over where grief left avoid. I grab what I can in a panic including some of the photo albums, a few notebooks, and her favorite scarves. I want things that feel like her, not just evidence of her life.

I pack them into boxes markedKEEPin as big of letters as the space allows, stacking them carefully by the door.

Aunt Carol appears beside me. “I’ll hold onto these,” she reassures me. “As long as you need.”

“Thank you,” I manage.

I pause in the dining room one last time, standing in front of the donation pile as if it might speak to me. Near the top rests the coat my mother wore every December, red wool with a fur-trimmed collar and a missing button she never bothered to replace. I lift it and press it briefly to my face before I can stop myself.

It still smells like her. I place it into my box instead, knowing some decisions don’t need to be reasoned with.