Papers were stacked on every surface, shoved into nooks and crannies, and scattered across the floor. Sandra sealed another box and hauled it into the hallway. The walking space was rapidly shrinking, filling with boxes of her late father’s writing.
A lump filled her throat, tears blurring her vision. His death shouldn't shock her. Her mother’s abandonment had broke him. His hours were spent writing jabberwocky while she waited patiently for the last string holding him to this world to snap.
She drew a breath, composing herself. Her father was finally free; she would celebrate that, not mourn his downfall.