დ Rosalie დ
I spent most of the next day in my father’s office. By then, the room had stopped feeling unfamiliar. And the smell of dust and paper had intensified, but the open window helped with the stench that clung to the walls. But I had also started to understand that this was where my father had kept parts of himself hidden. Or in order. Bills. Receipts. Notes. Lists. The neat little records of a man who couldn’t control much, but tried to control what he could. And the more I found, the less I liked what I was beginning to understand. The folders on the desk had started to form their own order. Ashford records on one side. Household accounts on the other. Old notes and letters in the middle. I had gone through most of the obvious things already, but I kept going anyway. It felt like
