Kayla stopped hanging around the kitchen when either of us was there.
Then, one evening, she came into the living room.
“I’m moving out.”
Mara looked up.
“When?”
“When I can get everything sorted.”
I didn’t celebrate.
I wasn’t interested in punishing her forever.
Still, I was relieved.
A home where you have to photograph your refrigerator before leaving for work isn’t much of a home.
A couple of weeks later, Kayla had arranged to live somewhere else.
On her final weekend with us, I worked another late shift.
When I came home, the kitchen lights were on.
I opened the refrigerator.
For a moment, I thought I’d opened the wrong one.
It was packed.
Greek yogurt.
Chicken.
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