My stepmother called me at the end of the day, her voice so smug I could practically hear the smile on her lips, and told me that from now on I would never be allowed to set foot in the family beach house again because she had already changed every lock.

In its place lay a pale sisal runner that looked like it had been selected from a catalog for women who do not actually like the coast. The hallway table where my mother kept a bowl full of shells was gone too.

There was a narrow mirrored console instead, topped with coral shaped candlesticks and a framed photo of Victoria and my father. They were both smiling into a life that had cost someone else everything they owned.

The violence of that small replacement hit me much harder than I expected. People often think theft looks like a disappearance, but sometimes it looks like a cold substitution.

I walked farther into the living room and saw that the walls had been painted a colder gray. The slipcovered sofa that my mother loved had been replaced by a white sectional that no one would ever sit on with sandy legs.

The bookshelves still stood, but the cluttered paperbacks my mother read each summer were gone. In their place were decorative boxes and large objects that no one had ever touched.

“I told her not to paint over the cream color,” Cassandra muttered from behind me. I turned in surprise to see that she had followed us inside and pushed her sunglasses up into her hair.

“It made the whole place look much colder,” she added. It was the first honest thing I had heard her say all morning.

Victoria swept in after us and looked around with a critical eye. “As if your mother had such exquisite taste,” she sneered at me.

I stared at her and shook my head. “You really cannot help yourself even now, can you?” I asked.

“Do not start with me in this house,” she warned. I laughed once and looked at her with pity.

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” I asked. Lydia entered the room then along with one of the officers and the locksmith.

I moved from room to room without performing any outrage, just seeing what had been done. The kitchen still had the same windows overlooking the dunes, but the copper pot rack was missing.

The blue striped dish towels were gone, and the small brass bell by the back door had been removed. The pantry door stood open and I saw that the top shelf had been reorganized by someone who did not understand sentiment.

My mother’s jars of hand labeled herbs had vanished from their spot. I had left them there on purpose because sometimes grief needs physical objects to hold onto.