“Rebuilding?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” he says, “I think he’s selling the land.”
“Ripping down our cottage.”
“It was never ours,” he says, which is true; we rented for fifteen years, before he tired of it and we tired of him complaining.
On a whim two summers ago I drove by, losing a morning off and half a tank of gas, trying to
recapture something that was a fleeting thing at best: pretending we were that family.