Adam was thirteen when May got married. She was only eighteen, dressed in slim-fitting white lace, her blonde hair gleaming under a crocheted ivory veil that their mother had worn at her own wedding
Adam kept looking at his sister’s hands. The left one, especially. He knew that once it was ornamented in the silver wedding band that he couldn’t grab and hold it anymore. Not when he was scared, not when they were walking, not when they were up listenting to a late-night thunderstorm in May’s turreted, east-facing room. That room was already empty; the bed linens wrapped in brown paper, stuffed with lavender, and tied with twine. May was taking her clothes and her books and a broken porcelain doll but that was it.
(More later, when nothing is cooking and all is quiet!)