Some evenings, Ethan wanted to talk.
Other evenings, he barely said a word.
Nia sometimes asked questions about Claire.
Then became upset when the answers reminded her of the investigation.
We made space for those reactions.
We stopped pretending there was one correct way to grieve.
And slowly, we began learning how to live in a home where the truth no longer had to be hidden.
The first time I returned to our house with both children, the television was gone.
The wall above the fireplace looked strangely bare.
For years, that room had been the center of our family life.
We watched movies there.
Celebrated birthdays.
Opened Christmas presents.
And argued over what to watch on Friday evenings.
Now there was an empty rectangle where the television had hung.
The damaged screen had been preserved and documented during the investigation, and I had arranged for the room to be cleaned and made comfortable again.
But I hadn't purchased a replacement.
I didn't know whether the children wanted one.
Nia stood near the fireplace.
She looked toward the empty wall.
For a moment, her expression became thoughtful.
Then she said.
“Can we put Mom's picture there?”
I looked at her.
“What?”
She pointed.
“Not a huge one. Just something.”
Ethan stood beside the sofa.
He looked toward the wall.
Then nodded.
“That would be nice.”
My throat tightened.
I thought about Vanessa telling us the house needed to move forward.
The way she'd removed Claire's photographs.
Packed away her books.
And gradually replaced familiar belongings with things she preferred.
I had told myself that changing the house was part of rebuilding our lives.
Now I understood that moving forward didn't require erasing the past.
I looked toward Nia.
“Which picture?”
She considered.
Then smiled faintly.
“The one where Mom's laughing in the kitchen.”
I knew exactly which photograph she meant.
Claire was standing beside the island, holding a wooden spoon.
Her curls were loose.
Her head was tilted backward.
And she was laughing because Ethan had accidentally dropped an entire bowl of flour while trying to bake cookies.
I had taken the picture.
One of my favorites.
But after Claire died, Vanessa had packed it away with several other photographs.
I found it in a storage box upstairs.
The frame was dusty.
The glass needed cleaning.