“”That’s it?”” she asked suspiciously.
“”That’s it.””
“”You’re not going to cause trouble later?””
I met her eyes.
“”No, Vanessa. I’m not going to cause trouble.””
Daniel was sitting on the couch.
He didn’t get up.
He didn’t hug me.
He didn’t even offer to carry my suitcase.
As I reached the front door, I checked my purse.
My wallet.
My old flip phone.
And the brass key.
I had everything I needed.
That night, I checked into a cheap motel off Route 119.
The room smelled of disinfectant, the lampshade was cracked, and the heating unit rattled every few minutes.
I bought dinner from a vending machine but couldn’t bring myself to eat it.
Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my husband’s photograph.
For the first time since his death, I cried.
Not because I’d lost the house.
But because I’d finally accepted that the little boy I’d raised had become a man who could watch his mother walk away with nowhere to go.
Around midnight, while searching my purse for a tissue, I discovered something I’d forgotten.
A business card.
My husband had slipped it into my purse several months earlier.
It belonged to an estate attorney in Manhattan.
The address was on 47th Street.
I remembered asking why I would ever need a lawyer in New York City.
My husband had only smiled.
“”Someday, sweetheart, you’ll understand.””
My hands trembled as I dialed the number.
