“We have to move,” my husband said, taking off his jacket. “The landlord called and said that he sold the house.”
“When?” I said. We’d just moved in ten months before.
“Three weeks,” he said.
Our toddler son pulled at his shirt tail.
I’d had to stop working when Milo was born. There was barely enough money to pay for diapers.
The next day I walked Milo in his blue stroller. I pretended things were normal. The air smelled like roses.
When I got home there was a balding man banging a “For Sale” sign into the grass by the sidewalk. He smiled at the baby.
Later I went outside and pulled the sign from the ground. It was wooden and heavy, but it didn’t take much to throw it over the back fence into the river.
There’d be another sign, I knew. But it was all I could do.
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