Paying three hundred thousand dollars of debt before being ordered out of the house
“I will be there,” I said.
She walked out, her heels clicking on the porch stairs until the sound was swallowed by the rumble of the moving truck’s engine outside.
I walked to the mantle piece and ran my hand along the painted wood, feeling the small notch where the paint had chipped during the move.
The front room was completely bare now, the grey morning light filling the space without any furniture to cast a shadow.
A delivery van pulled up behind the moving truck, its brakes squeaking in the quiet neighborhood.
A young man in a grey uniform walked up the porch steps carrying a clipboard and a small cardboard box.
“Clare Mitchell?” he asked through the screen door.
“Yes,” I said, walking to the door.
“Sign here, please,” he said, holding out a black digital pen.
I signed my name on the glass screen, my signature looking thin and sharp.
He handed me the box, which was light and rattled slightly as I took it.
“Have a good day,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
I carried the box into the empty dining room and set it on the floor.
