Chapter 7 - The Housewarming
That evening, the beach house filled with people who had never needed me small.
Not a large party. I was not ready for that. Just five friends, two neighbors who had seen the morning drama and brought wine without asking questions, and my realtor, who arrived with a plant and the satisfied expression of a woman who had watched too many buyers apologize for wanting good things.
We ate pizza on paper plates because the dining table had not been delivered yet. Someone hung string lights on the porch. Marissa put my suitcases in the upstairs bedroom and said, “Your stepmother doesn’t get to make those the center of the room.”
The comments on my post kept growing.
Diane deleted her video at 6:42 p.m.
Screenshots continued circulating.
By 7:10, Aunt Carol texted me.
I didn’t realize you had bought a house. Congratulations.
I stared at the message and laughed.
Marissa asked what happened.
I showed her.
She said, “That’s not an apology.”
“No.”
“Are you answering?”
“No.”
That felt good.
Not cruel.
Clean.
Later, after everyone left, I stood alone on the porch holding the house keys in my palm. The metal had warmed from my hand. The ocean moved beyond the dark line of sand, steady and indifferent to family drama. For the first time in years, I did not feel watched. Measured. Interpreted. Reduced.
Inside, my packed suitcases sat open on the bed.
The same suitcases Diane had filmed as evidence that she had won.
I unpacked them slowly.
White pants in the closet.
Sandals by the door.
Framed photos on the dresser, including one of my mother that Diane had always hated because Dad looked happy in the background.
May you like
I placed that one on the mantel.
Then I slept with every window cracked open, listening to the ocean and the strange, beautiful silence of a home where no one had decided peace required my absence.
