After my husband’s funeral, I returned home with my black dress still clinging to my skin. I opened the door… and found my mother-in-law and eight family members packing suitcases as if it were a hotel.

Because it showed me, with terrifying clarity, how quickly some people can move from mourning to looting.

Marjorie turned when she heard the door.

She didn’t gasp. She didn’t blush. She didn’t even pretend to be caught.

She simply lifted her chin with that familiar expression of superior patience, as though she were the only adult in the room and I had interrupted something important.

“You’re back,” she said.

I stayed in the doorway for a beat, my heels hanging from one hand, my head still light from not eating, my whole body so exhausted it barely felt inhabited.

“What are you doing in my home?” I asked.