We ignored the sheaf of papers. They lay neatly clipped on the shiny round table my mother had given us years ago. We could never bring ourselves to junk it.
I bent over the news, pretending to check the stocks. Seated on the piano bench, she plinked the keys at random. We were poised to rise up and flee for the door.
We knew the papers were there and what they held. We knew the yellow walls and what they hid. We knew the still-life paintings on the walls. We had such oneness then.