But about a month ago, something shifted. It began subtly—barely perceptible. She’d come home from volunteering to find her bedroom window cracked open, though she swore she’d closed it. A spoon left in the sink. A chair slightly pulled out. Things she dismissed as forgetfulness.
Then came the fridge. On more than one occasion, she returned to find the milk carton lighter than she remembered. Or the jam jar lid twisted and crooked. She told herself she was imagining things. That grief was still playing tricks. That this was aging. But doubt was setting in.