Chapter 1 - The Papers On The Kitchen Table
Greg put the pen directly in front of me.
Not beside the papers.
On top of them.
As if the location of a pen could turn an order into a decision.
“Sign the house over and leave by Friday.”
I looked at my son across the kitchen table.
Greg was fifty-five years old, broad-shouldered, wearing the same plaid shirt he favored whenever he wanted to look like the practical one in the family. Behind him, Dana stood near the refrigerator in a dark sweater, arms folded, gray-blonde hair perfectly arranged.
Neither of them looked uncomfortable.
That was what hurt.
My suitcase was already sitting beside the doorway.
Packed.
I had not packed it.
At eighty-one, I was slower than I had once been. My knees hurt when rain came. My hands shook slightly if I held a heavy cup too long.
But my mind was clear.
Clear enough to understand that my son had packed my clothes before getting my signature.
I looked down at the property papers.
Then I lifted my tea.
Took a sip.
And said, “You should ask the person who owns this house first.”
Greg laughed.
“Dad’s dead, Mom.”
I said nothing.
My husband, Arthur, had been dead for almost three years.
Greg believed that ended the conversation.
It did not.
The doorbell rang.
Greg glanced toward the front hall and smiled.
“That’ll be the realtor.”
Dana straightened.
“Finally.”
I remained seated.
Greg walked through the narrow hallway with the confidence of a man who thought the only thing left to do was sell someone else’s home.
He opened the front door.
And stopped.
Emily stood outside.
My granddaughter.
Twenty-nine years old.
Brown hair.
Navy slacks.
Cream blouse.
A blue folder tucked beneath one arm.
House keys in her hand.
Greg’s expression changed so quickly I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“You?”
Emily gave him a calm look.
“Hello, Dad.”
Dana appeared behind Greg.
“Who is she?”
Greg stepped sideways, blocking the doorway.
“Nobody.”
Emily looked past him.
Straight at me.
Then she lifted the keys slightly.
“Then you probably won’t want to hear why Grandma called me.”
Greg went pale.
He turned toward me.
“You called her?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before you decided what I should pack.”
Emily placed one hand over the blue folder.
“Those papers are six months too late.”
Nobody spoke.
Greg looked at the folder.
Then the keys.
Then me.
For the first time that morning, my son was no longer deciding what happened next.
May you like
And I smiled.
Because six months earlier, I had finally stopped waiting for Greg to remember that I was still alive.
