The next morning, I drove across town to the title company. Mark took the day off and came with me. Leo stayed with our neighbor.
The closing agent was a brisk young woman named Tamara in a gray blazer. She had everything laid out on the long conference table in neat little stacks with yellow sticky flags.
“Mrs. Hughes, as the executor of your mother’s estate, you’ll be signing the deed and the settlement statement today,” she said. “Sale price, two hundred thirty-six thousand. After the mortgage payoff, the realtor’s commission, and the closing costs, the net proceeds to the estate will be one hundred ninety-eight thousand, four hundred twelve dollars.”
She slid the deed across the table to me.
The young couple buying the house sat across from us. The woman was very pregnant. She kept one hand on her belly the whole time. Her husband kept looking at her like she was the only person in the room.
I picked up the pen.
Yesterday morning, I would have signed that deed thinking it was the end. That the last place where my mother still existed was being handed to strangers.
Now I knew she was on my wall at home. Looking out her kitchen window. Waiting for me under a ceiling full of my son’s crooked stars.
I signed in all the places Tamara pointed to. My hand was steady.
When we were done, the pregnant woman reached across the table and touched my arm.
“We’ll take good care of it,” she said. “I promise. I saw the bird feeder in the backyard. We’re going to keep it filled.”
“She’d like that,” I said. “She’d like that very much.”
In the car afterward, I took the envelope with my mother’s life insurance check out of my purse. It had been riding around in there all week. I’d brought it to the closing without really knowing why.
“Can we stop at the credit union?” I asked Mark.
“Sure. What for?”
“I’m going to open a college account for Leo,” I said. “Grandma’s money. She’d want it to go to him.”
Mark reached across the console and took my hand.
At the credit union, I opened a 529 education savings account in Leo’s name and deposited the full $50,000. My manager Denise processed it herself. She cried a little when I told her why.
“Your mom would be so proud,” she said.
That afternoon, we added the last of the estate money to our own savings. Enough to replace the money Mark took for the mural. Enough to fix the roof. Enough for a little left over.
Gerald Pruitt called around four to tell me the estate paperwork would be wrapped up within a month. Then he paused.
“How are you doing, Kate? Really?”
“Better, Gerald,” I said. “Today, I’m actually better.”
Specialty: Legal & Financial Drama
Michael Carter covers stories where money, power, and personal history collide. His writing often explores courtroom battles, business conflicts, and the subtle strategies people use when pushed into a corner. He focuses on grounded, realistic storytelling with attention to detail and believable motivations.