She'd come from Houston to pack the house, to send her mother's things away in a truck to where they needn't be looked at or thought of. She'd come to wipe the dust and grime and hair and rat shit from the cold hardwood floors. She'd come to switch off the lights and unscrew the bulbs and throw the breakers. She'd come to lock the front door behind her and walk away once and for all.
Now, standing at the window, she felt like she was still twelve, and wondered if she'd dreamed all the growing up and moving out.