Three months before the wedding, Sabrina had started calling my house a burden.
“You’re getting older, Irene. Wouldn’t a smaller apartment be easier?”
Then she suggested assisted living.
Then she began asking questions about my savings, insurance policies, and whether Caleb had access to my financial accounts.
I believed she was being considerate.
I even gave her eighteen thousand dollars toward the wedding expenses.
Last Tuesday, however, a courier had delivered a document to my house by mistake.
It was a preliminary agreement authorizing the sale of my property.
At the bottom was my signature.
Or something pretending to be my signature.
Someone had copied my name onto a document I had never seen.
My attorney had spent the following four days trying to discover who was responsible.
And that morning, before the wedding, she had called me with news that made my hands shake.
I had come to the ballroom hoping to speak privately with Caleb.
Instead, Sabrina had intercepted me beside the family table, removed my place card, and announced that I was no longer welcome at the reception.
Now Caleb was looking from his wife to her father.
“Dad’s garden?” he repeated. “What does that have to do with Victor?”
Sabrina’s grip tightened around his sleeve.
“Don’t make a scene.”
Victor was already moving toward us.
“Irene,” he said smoothly, “this is neither the time nor the place.”
I looked into his eyes.
“Then why did your company send someone to photograph my house yesterday?”
His confident expression faltered.
Caleb took a step away from Sabrina.
“Somebody needs to tell me what’s going on.”
Sabrina suddenly laughed.
It was sharp and unnatural.
“Fine. Your mother wants the truth? Let’s give her the truth.”
She turned toward me.
