She walked into my living room and slowly turned her head.
I watched her take inventory.
The cream-colored sectional I had saved eleven months to buy.
The narrow oak coffee table I’d found at an estate sale for twenty-five dollars.
The framed print above my couch that cost eight dollars and had required two bus transfers to get home.
The yellow tulips.
The tall windows.
The honey-colored floors I had refinished myself after closing because professional refinishing had been nearly two thousand dollars beyond my budget.
My mother looked at everything.
Something moved across her face.
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