I pushed the folder away.
“”I said I’m staying.””
Vanessa’s expression hardened.
“”You’re being emotional.””
“”I’m being very clear.””
She left without finishing her tea.
Two days later, Michael called again.
This time, he didn’t ask for money.
He told me they had found a buyer for the house.
I laughed because I genuinely thought he was joking.
“”Michael, you cannot sell my property.””
“”Mom, listen. It’s a good offer.””
“”Then you should consider selling your own property.””
He became silent.
Then he said something I would never forget.
“”You’re not going to live forever.””
I felt as though someone had opened a window in the middle of winter.
“”Excuse me?””
“”You know what I mean. We’re trying to handle things before they become complicated.””
I ended the call.
I didn’t tell anyone about that conversation.
I was ashamed.
I couldn’t understand how the little boy who once cried when Richard left for a business trip had become a man who spoke about his mother’s death as though it were a scheduling inconvenience.
For the next month, I heard very little from them.
I assumed the matter had ended.
I was wrong.
On a Tuesday morning, I received a call from a local real estate agent named Patricia.
She asked whether I was available to discuss the listing agreement for my lakeside property.
I nearly dropped the phone.
“”What listing agreement?””
