Maggie had always found it vaguely funny, the way her father let the house fade and fall out of fashion. She made fun of it, obviously, and then indulged him as if he were some sort of aesthete, rising above a change in wallpaper on moral grounds. Perhaps she had missed the point entirely. Did he want it that way, a daily reminder of a previous life? A sort of penance? Sadness and disinterest can often look alike, Maggie thinks.
