It’s a violation to stand in their space, unexpected. It can cause panic. I turned the photo of Holly and the kids from the mantel and held it, facing her. Most burglars or rapists or murderers—however she classified me on first sight, unwelcome in her home—didn’t hold family photos. Holly was talking to herself. “I am so going to need yoga today.” Holly walked into the living room, her hands folded together and pressed up to her lips as though lost in thought. She saw me. Holly froze. She kept her folded hands close to her face. She didn’t scream; she just froze, watching me. In her expensive yoga pants, and blonde hair pulled up in a simple ponytail, and her T-shirt for her kids’ school with an uplifting motto about teamwork on it, she looked like soccer mom the same way I’d thought of her ex-husband as suburban dad. The roles I’d loved for my parents to play when I was a kid, but that wasn’t meant to be.
