Rob’s new apartment was on the way to Archer, Lowen and Associates, but that was only one of the reasons Lillian did not like going to her attorney’s office. Something about the office made her uneasy. She felt the stifling of heartache and anger, dangerous emotions being gagged and tactfully coded into contracts and given monetary value. Every time she was there, she felt the presence of more than her own pain crowding into the office, loitering in the halls, taking every available seat in the room and then lining the walls.

At the thought of her attorney’s office, Lillian shut her eyes and breathed deeply a few times as a mental reset. She walked to the refrigerator and pulled out some leftover soup for lunch. While it was warming on the stove, she turned to consider the rest of the day. Her stare roamed the walls and counters. She, Rob and Avery had lived in this house the last 20 years and now she wondered what their good days and bad days had done to it, what ghosts were lingering along the walls.

Her viewpoint made it all seem very foreign. Who decided on this wallpaper with the fleur-de-lis along the top border? Where did these sconces come from? she wondered. And the tiny tiles along the backsplash, which she had put in herself as a summer project one year. Now, she could not remember placing one bit into the cool, soft mortar. As she continued studying the kitchen, the house seemed to look back at her with a similar questioning stare. She started to feel uncomfortable and then out of place under its gaze.

She turned back to the stove quickly and stirred the soup. “I should go,” she said over her shoulder, like someone embarrassed to discover that they are not welcome. She was almost done preparing for her meeting, so she ladled her soup into a bowl and set the oven timer for 25 minutes. At least she would go on her own terms.

Twenty-five minutes later, the beep actually sounded like freedom. She dropped her pen, pushed away from the table and walked to the door where she pulled on her jacket, shuffled into some clogs, and locked the door behind her. Each of these things was right where she always put them in the entryway—on the hook, under the bench, keys on the shelf. She was on her way out, but she felt that with each familiar act she was reminding the house of who was in charge, who would be back.

She decided to walk the five blocks to the park near her house. There would likely be children there on their day off from school. The park had a wonderful hill for sledding because the slope was just right to get good speed, but not so steep or high that the sledder minded walking back up the hill over and over.  

Lillian’s friend Karen owned a house directly across from the park, and as Lillian arrived, she saw her in the window. After a few minutes, Karen was beside her, as Lillian had half expected. Karen had been Avery’s 7th grade teacher, and she was inescapably and—Lillian often thought—unconsciously sweet, the type of person who was always on the verge of committing a nice gesture. They were opposites in many ways, which served their friendship well. “Lily, here, I brought you a cup of cider. Are you just out for a walk?”

“Yes. I was tired of being inside. Do you ever get the feeling your house is staring at you?”