The next morning, he asked them to help him start packing. They were thrilled, convinced he’d finally agreed. For two days, they boxed up his books, dishes, and keepsakes, chatting about how lively the house would feel once he was gone. My father thanked them graciously and even cooked dinner to show his appreciation.
When I returned, everything appeared untouched. But two days later, the doorbell rang. My in-laws stood outside, suitcases in hand, looking confused. Behind them, a moving truck was waiting.
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