After My Grandma’s Death, My Husband Rushed Me to Sell Her House — When I Learned the Reason, I Was Furious and Made Him Regret It

Can’t we just… slow down a bit?”

His eyes flicked toward the stairs, then back to me. “I’m just saying, it’s an old house.

It needs work. We could use the cash. You’re dragging this out.”

I didn’t reply.

I just stood there, still holding the afghan blanket she always draped over her armchair. My throat felt tight, like I’d swallowed something sharp.

The sky outside was dull and gray, the kind that presses down on your chest. Inside the house, everything felt heavy.

There were half-eaten pies left behind from the repast, empty glasses on the dining table, and that thick silence that comes after everyone leaves.

I walked slowly to her bedroom. The bed still had the same floral quilt she’d had for decades. I sat down carefully, the springs beneath me letting out a soft groan, like they were mourning too.

Paul came in without knocking.

“Mira,” he said, standing stiffly in the doorway, “it’s getting late.

We should go.”

“I just need a few more minutes.”

He sighed. “What else is there to pack? We’ve already been here all day.”

I didn’t answer.

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