He was in the living room. An array of cardboard boxes were scattered there, waiting to be filled. I tried to smile. "Want some breakfast?"
"Sure," he said plainly. "That'd be great."
He filled a box with books, then turned to his paperweight collection.
"I can help," I said. He reached for another box, plopping it down on the rug with a sound of rustling paperboard; and I realized that sound, that cardboard box sound, was the sound of relationships ending.