Last Saturday, I told my father’s cat to stop scratching the wardrobe. Dad had been dead for six weeks. I was trying to clear his bedroom before the house went on the market. The cat had been living with me since the funeral. I brought him along when I spent the day packing, thinking he might prefer somewhere familiar. Every time, he went straight to Dad’s room. He ignored the empty bed and the chair by the window. He sat in front of the wardrobe, scratching the door and crying. I moved him away. He went back. I checked his water, offered him food, and opened the curtains. Nothing helped. By that weekend, I was tired of making decisions about every object Dad had owned. Sell the dresser. Donate the clothes. Keep the photographs. I’d spent twenty minutes holding a chipped mug because I remembered him drinking from it. After that, I started working faster. The cat kept scratching. “Give me a minute,” I said, more sharply than I needed to. I wondered whether a mouse had got into the wardrobe. The house had been empty, and there were gaps behind the shelves. I finally put the packing tape down and opened the door. He stopped crying immediately.