Carla moved through rooms like an ice draft. Perfume like cold flowers. Smiles that never touched her eyes. Nails filed into neat little points. When Dad’s heart gave out, I didn’t see a single tear at the hospital. At the funeral, when my knees went weak at the graveside, she leaned in and whispered, “You’re embarrassing yourself. He’s gone. It happens to everyone.” I couldn’t even answer. Grief had turned my throat to sand.
Two weeks later she began “clearing out clutter” like she was scrubbing a crime scene. Suits. Shoes. And then a trash bag that swallowed his ties—wild paisleys, ridiculous guitar prints, stripes he wore on “big meeting” days. “He’s not coming back for them,” she said, dropping them into black plastic. I waited for her phone to ring, then dragged the bag to my closet. Every silk strip