It was quick, but he answered it by reaching toward the stack of bills.
“Let me get these out of your way.”
His voice sounded almost normal.
That was what made me watch his hand.
Beneath the salon statement was a heavier sheet of paper. I could see the corner of a printed box and the address of my house.
“Leave that.”
His fingers stayed on the page.
“Mom, it’s nothing.”
Rebecca’s torn notice lay between us. Thirty days to leave, scattered in four pieces.
I pulled the bills aside.
The document underneath was a sale contract.
For a moment, I only understood the address. Then the price. Then the line marked “Seller.”
My name was written there.
I knew every uneven letter. I had watched that handwriting develop from elementary school permission slips to birthday cards signed, Love, Andrew.
Only this time, he had signed my name.
“When did you become me?”
Andrew opened his mouth, but Rebecca spoke first.
“Before you say anything else, check the date.”
My eyes moved to the bottom of the page.
The contract was dated three weeks earlier.
Then I saw the second signature—and understood why neither of them had asked where they would live after I sold my house.
Lillian Mercer.
Rebecca’s mother.
I recognized the long sweep beneath her surname from the check she had tucked into their wedding card. Six hundred and ten thousand dollars appeared above it. My house would become hers, and her daughter would never have to leave.
I pressed my palm flat against the counter.
“Your mother is buying my house.”
Rebecca straightened one of the torn pieces with her fingernail.
“We found a way for everyone to be comfortable.”
“Except me.”
“You’d have more money than you need.”
