The van has gone. The front room is piled with boxes that measure out the floor. My daughter loosens dust as she runs from room to room. Street sounds bring amber light and the smell of Indian food. ‘Which box are the mugs in?’ Shelves block the hall and demand assembly. My bare foot sticks to the carpet with the last tenant’s chewing gum and condensation paints the window. I ask myself if I have done the right thing – this is far from over.
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