I brushed it off.
“Bye, guest room,” I said out loud. “Hello, home office!”
I grabbed the corner of the fitted sheet and yanked.
It didn’t budge.
“Oh, come on.”
A few rooms away, I could hear my husband, Thomas, moving around the kitchen, the clatter of a mug and running water. He’d offered to help. I’d waved him off. This was the part I wanted to do myself.
It didn’t budge.
I gave the sheet another yank and thought about my own mother, who had also been a closed-door woman. I also thought about the things that had come out from behind those doors when I was 12. I pushed the thought away.
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