The kitchen was empty by the time the moving van pulled away.

Dad called me back just as I was closing the front door. He was holding a pencil.

'Heels against the wood,' he said.

I knew the drill. On the doorframe were all my old height marks. Seven. Nine. Twelve, with a question mark because I'd stood on my toes.

He drew a line above them all. Beside it, where the age usually went, he wrote two words.

Moving day.