The memories of those dinners are loud, as though they’re seated around the table, calling out to be noticed. As an adult, I suddenly see the wrong in them. The rejection of May because she didn’t like the wine my mother so adored, the affection doled out like a prize, nothing unconditional about it. The entire evening a stage for my mother, the two of us her captive audience. I run my hand along the smooth edge of the table as I leave the room—wishing my adult eyes would stop tarnishing my childhood.

The stairs are tucked into a corner of the living room, a narrow passage with a slight slant to it, making you feel as though you’re climbing through the bowels of a rocking ship instead of a cottage. The place was built well over a hundred years ago, before grand staircases started showing up everywhere.

You could sit on the bottom step and get a clear view into the living room without anyone being able to see you. May and I used it like a superhero power when we were kids, sneaking down to watch my parents late at night as they read books by the fire or, better yet, entertained friends from across the bay.

I duck into the stairway and grasp the thin metal railing. The slant seems more pronounced, but I may be imagining it. Each step has a dip that’s been worn down in the middle from heavy traffic. Even through my shoes I can feel it cup my foot as I go.

Reaching the landing at the top of the stairs, I stop to gain my balance and wait for my eyes to adjust from the shadows to the light. Windows line the entire upper hallway, and sun from above the tree line pours in. This cottage is a contrast of shadows and bright light, forcing you to recalibrate as you move through it.

The hallway is stuffy and hot. Dead flies line the windowsills and the curtains hang limp, heavy with dust. Exerting enough effort to produce a thin film of sweat on my upper lip, I manage to get two of the windows open. Going down to the end of the hallway to the bathroom, I pry that window open as well to create a cross breeze, and almost instantly I can breathe easier.

A ring of green grows in the dry bowl of the toilet. The sink is in better shape, with only a thin line of orange from rusty pipes staining the white porcelain. I turn to inspect the white claw-foot tub, which looks gray with its covering of dust.