Mrs. Macabe was a romantic that had been hardened by life. She kept momentos of her failed attempts at love around her home, perhaps as reminders to not make those same mistakes again. To most people they seemed innocent decorations, but I knew their hidden secrets.

The framed print of a couple, walking and holding hands over the couch was not just that. It was a card she bought for a lover who ended their relationship on its intended day of transaction. She told me that it was too beautiful to throw away and it reminded her to be sure her feelings would be returned before going out on a limb.

The painting in the hallway she did the day after her sister died. The swirls of color representing the untold apologies never made. She painted it quickly and furiously to capture the pain of having someone die without ever getting to say your good-byes.

The bouquet of dried roses in the dining room were the last things her husband gave here as an “I’m sorry, I’m cheating on you” present. She kept them there for the same reason as the ring on her left hand. Some thought the ring was a gift from her late husband. It was instead a gift intended for his mistress, but Mrs. Macabe intercepted it. She wore before they divorced it to remind him not to think that he could ever get anything over on her. She wore it afterwards to remind herself to always be on guard.

The photo she placed her hand on every time she gave a tour of the house was as she said – of her father. She neglected to tell them that she had never met him and that she didn’t know whether her addendum of “God rest his soul” was at all appropriate or not. She told me that having his face there reminded her that he was the one missing out in this situation and that he was dead to her.