Afterward, I drove to my father’s house—my house now, though I still thought of it as his when the light hit the front windows a certain way—and let myself in without bracing first. The rooms were quiet. Honest. Unperformed. I set down my keys, stood in the kitchen, and realized I was no longer waiting for some new letter, some hidden envelope, some final blow.

There wasn’t one.

The truth had already arrived.

The court had read it.

The law had named it.

The estate was settled.

My mother’s death was no longer a polite lie.

And my sister, at last, could no longer enter a room as if applause belonged to her.