Three weeks after my mother died, I still could not bring myself to clear out her house.
Every room felt frozen in time, as if she might walk in at any moment carrying a stack of library books and asking whether I wanted tea.
My mother, Vivian, had been an archivist for nearly 40 years.
She spent her life surrounded by dusty history books, old records, and faded photographs.
She was quiet, gentle, and predictable in the best possible way.
At least, that was who I thought she was.