who sleeps in it.”
He looked past me toward the windows. “You’re going to regret this when we’re gone.”
There it was.
The final weapon.
Guilt.
Mortality.
Future grief used as a leash.
For most of my life, it would have worked. I would have imagined an empty chair at Thanksgiving, a hospital room, or a funeral. I would have wondered whether the house or the continue reading …
