I set the teacup down on the console table. Patricia smirked, mistaking the silence for surrender. “Smart girl. The car’s outside. We mailed your things to your sister’s apartment.”
I walked past her, past the sisters whispering behind manicured hands, and opened the door to David’s study. From the top drawer of his desk I pulled a navy blue folder. David had given it to me on our second anniversary, the night he was first diagnosed. “If anything ever happens,” he’d whispered, “don’t argue with them. Just open this.”
I walked back into the foyer and placed the folder on the marble console. “Patricia. Before the realtor arrives, you should probably read this.”
She rolled her eyes but flipped it open. The color drained from her face one inch at a time. The lake house was never in David’s name. Neither was the Boston brownstone she’d been living in rent-free for nine years. Neither was the trust that paid her country club dues. David had quietly transferred everything into a holding company three years ago. A holding company solely owned by me.
The brownstone notice was dated yesterday. Sixty days to vacate.
“This,” I said softly, “is the inventory David asked me to give you. Your inventory. Two suitcases. The pearl earrings from his grandmother. And the photo album from his childhood, because he wanted you to remember the boy you actually loved, before money turned him into a checkbook to you.”
One of the sisters started crying. Patricia’s mouth opened and closed like a fish on a dock.
“The car’s outside,” I added, echoing her own words. “I mailed the rest of your things to a storage unit. The address is in the folder.”
I picked my teacup back up, walked into the kitchen, and finally, for the first time in eleven days, I poured myself something warm. Behind me, I heard the front door close. And for the first time, the house felt like mine.
