Nora had come to help her father clear the hallway cupboard. The door no longer closed, and he had begun leaving his shoes where he could trip over them. It was an ordinary reason for an ordinary Saturday visit.
At the back hung the brown coat he had worn to her mother’s funeral. Nora put a hand into the pocket before adding it to the donation bag. A bus ticket, a sweet wrapper and the receipt came out together.
“Whose child was it for?” she asked. Arthur reached for the paper, then let his hand fall. “Someone who was cold.”
It was a kind answer and somehow an evasive one. For years Nora had driven him to appointments, checked his bills and worried about his memory. The thought that he had been travelling somewhere without telling her felt less like mystery than exclusion.
