A woman dressed in a sleek blazer and a tight bun aproches me with a solemn expression. I know what’s coming but my knowing doesn’t help when it’s spoken.

“I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this but your mother passed a week ago and granted her home down to her eldest daughter. That’s you I assume?”

“You know what they say about assuming,” I hide my feelings for my late mother behind the brick wall I built for myself.

“Well, you could say that was an assumption in itself. I’m truly sorry for your loss, and if you need anything just contact me.”

The woman hands me a white card with gold embellishments and a key.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I say as I turn to walk away.

I look left and right at the wrap around porch, the pots that had hung from the ceiling of the porch had wilted flowers. Mom had always kept carnations in the plastic hanging pots. Always had came outside in the early morning, in her long flowy skirts, to water her flowers and catch the sunrise. Sometimes, if I woke up early enough I could see her taking care of her flowers and savoring the crisp morning air. She always had this grace to her, always smiling too. As I climbed the ancient wooden steps, the creak has never sounded more welcoming then at this moment.

The key they gave me still fit the old,tarnished lock but the house no longer felt like home.