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house? In La Mesa?”
    “It’s the reason we’re here,” Dad says. “We’ve made a decision.”
    Before I can react, Trish says, “We got in late last night. So we went right there and opened it up. We went shopping and everything.”
    “And we have a lot of things to do,” Mom says. “Things that affect you. Trish has a break from school so we thought this the perfect time.”
    Wow. Mom is standing up and the others do, too. My cue to do the same. “Did you drive here?” It’s the only thing I can think to ask.
    Mom touches my cheek. “We’ve probably overwhelmed you. Let’s get to the house and we can sort it all out.”
    Dad rattles car keys. “The rental is right out front.”
    Trish links her arm through mine, steers me toward the door. “What’s with the new boyfriend? We’ve been watching him on the news. He’s totally hot, Aunt Anna.”
    “I’ll tell Stephen you said that,” I say, thinking this is the best Christmas present. Ever.

CHAPTER 5
    I T’S BEEN ALMOST A YEAR SINCE I’VE BEEN IN MY PARents’ house. It was last Christmas, in fact. Just before they left for a new life in France. A life that didn’t, that couldn’t, include me.
    In spite of open windows, there is still an air of mustiness, of emptiness. A house devoid of life. Until Trish’s laugh chases away the gloom. We’ve finished breakfast (another marvel of sleight of hand as I pretend to consume eggs and toast when in reality, the food becomes a lump in my napkin) and are sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by boxes and memories. The announcement came during the meal.
    My folks have decided to sell the house.
    I’m still in shock, though I know it’s the right thing to do. This place represents the past. France is their future.
    I look around at the three people I love most in the world. They’re here to pack up what they want to take back with them. In the process, Trish gets a peek into the history of her family.
    She never knew my brother, the man she thinks is her father. He died before she was born. It’s only her presence that makes what would be an unbearably sad task, going through his things, tolerable. She’s eager to learn everything she can about him and for the first time, Mom and Dad can share their memories without the gray specter of grief casting a pall. They can laugh and remember the good things.
    I join in with memories of growing up in the shadow of a brother who always made straight As, who excelled at any sport he took a fancy to, who never caused my folks the slightest bit of anxiety—in other words, the direct opposite of me.
    Predictably, my folks deny that I was a problem child. They have to, don’t they? But Trish enjoys the banter and reads between the lines. We loved each other unconditionally, without reservation. She knows this and I see the conflict in her eyes. Sadness because she was denied knowing that kind of happiness in the miserable home she grew up in with her mother, and gratitude that she is at last safe and loved.
    I reach over and give her arm a squeeze. If I ever second-guess myself that bringing Trish into our family was a mistake, I’ll remember this moment. The glow on my parents’ faces, the love in Trish’s eyes. She may not be related by blood, but she is related by heart. Nothing else matters.
    * * *
    IT TAKES THREE DAYS TO SORT, PACK, LABEL AND SHIP almost forty years of memories. I take a few mementos that belonged to my grandparents—the original owners of the property where I now live.
    They left the cottage to me and when a spiteful vampire burned it down not long after I was turned, every picture, every keepsake I had was destroyed. It would be nice to replace a few of those items. To restore their presence in real, tangible ways.
    Too soon it’s time for my family to leave. Trish’s school holiday is almost over. Mom calls for a donation truck to empty the house. A Realtor is contracted to handle the listing. There are a few