Chapter 25 - Selling the house
At seventy, I decided to sell my house.
Everyone assumed:
Because of the assault.
No.
Partly stairs.
Partly maintenance.
Partly because four bedrooms had become absurd for one person.
The foyer no longer frightened me.
That was why I could leave without feeling chased.
Rachel asked:
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because of what happened?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if it was?”
“Yes.”
The house sold for $1.21 million.
Normal market appreciation.
No secret billionaire buyer.
I purchased a smaller condominium twenty minutes away.
Two bedrooms.
Balcony.
Elevator.
I moved the brass plaque?
Yes.
Thomas’s crooked plaque did not belong to the new building, but I kept it.
It went into a box.
Rachel found it while helping.
“What do we do with this?”
“Storage.”
“Not wall?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Dad would be offended.”
“He’s dead. He has limited enforcement power.”
She laughed.
We carried boxes together.
Three years earlier she had arrived with six suitcases expecting my home to absorb her life without agreement.
Now she asked:
“Where do you want this?”
Every box.
Every lamp.
Every piece of furniture.
May you like
Permission in ordinary form.
That was repair too.
