About a week after I listed the house, I pulled into the driveway after spending the last few hours visiting with George. He had wanted to go to the cemetery to see Donald’s grave, and I had gone with him. I wasn’t really the sort who talked to the graves of my loved ones. To me Donald lived in my heart and in my memories, but it was of comfort to George, so I went with him.
I got out of my car and was preparing to go into the house when an airport shuttle van pulled up to the curb.
What the hell?
I stood watching near my car as the driver got out, went to the back of the van, and took out a suitcase, which he put on the other side of the van on the street.
Not expecting any visitors, I opened my mouth to tell the driver and his passenger they had the wrong house, but the driver got ba
