The house on Elder Street had been Claire's choice, which meant it had been a compromise David still felt in his knees when he took the front steps. She had wanted a porch. He had wanted a shorter commute. The porch won, and the commute became a thing he did with coffee and the news at a volume low enough not to wake a child. The paint was the color of putty. The maple in the yard had already given up half its leaves, and they plastered the walk in the shapes of hands. Naomi parked behind him. Helen's Buick arrived as if it had been following at a funeral distance for years.
Inside, the living room still held a framed photograph from a lake trip: Claire in a red sweater, Emma on her shoulders, David half out of the frame because he had been the one insisting the timer would work. No one turned the photograph down. They had learned, in the first year, that turning photographs down only made a room look cowardly.
Emma set the phone in the center of the kitchen table, on a woven placemat Claire had bought at a church fair and disliked. She plugged the charger into the outlet by the toaster. The battery icon woke at twelve percent, a small amber consolation. She did not touch the voicemail icon. She washed her hands, a ritual that made no sense and steadied her. David filled the kettle because filling the kettle was a way to be a person. Helen sat. Naomi took off her heels and stood in stocking feet, which Helen noticed and did not mention.
"We wait for Lauren," David said.
"We wait," Helen said.