We’re standing in the living room of our first house; it looks as empty as I feel.
He sneezes as soon as he walks in the door.
“You think?” I snarl.
“The driveway is pretty cracked,” he says.
I catch myself before the ground scrapes my knees and hands.
I trip.
He looks around at the neighborhood and clicks the remote lock.
We get out of the car.
I open my eyes as he puts it in park.
The car bounces over the long driveway.
I feel the car slow down and turn.
I close my eyes and try to ignore the anxiety, but my heart won’t stop pounding.
I let him drive because I’m tired from carrying boxes the movers didn’t take.
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