I reached across the table and took both her hands.
“He used you twice,” I said. “And neither time was your fault. Do you hear me?”
“I should have known.”
“You were trying to love both your parents. That’s not a crime. What he did is.”
She started crying again.
Rachel, who had been quiet this whole time, set down her mug.
“Lauren,” she said. “Can I tell you something about your mother?”
Lauren nodded.
“When we were girls, your mom was the bravest person I knew.”
I looked at Rachel, surprised.
She smiled at me. “When I was fourteen, a boy named Kevin Purcell spread a terrible rumor about me. The whole school was talking. I was hiding in the library at lunch every day.”
“Aunt Rachel—”
“Your mother marched into the cafeteria, walked right up to Kevin Purcell’s table in front of everybody, and told him to stand up and take it back. Loudly. And he did.”
Lauren stared at me. “Mom did that?”
“She was eleven,” Rachel said. “Half his size. She had a ponytail and a Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox.”
Rachel turned to me, and her eyes were wet.
“Somewhere along the way, Diane, you forgot that girl was still inside you.”
My throat closed up.
“Today,” Rachel said, “you remembered.”
Lauren looked at me like she was seeing someone new.
“I never knew that,” she said.
I squeezed her hands.
“There’s a lot I never told you,” I said. “But I’m going to start.”
The weeks after that Saturday were not simple. I wish I could tell you everything was fixed the moment the truck drove away. Real life doesn’t wrap up that neatly.
On Monday morning, Patricia sent Mark’s attorney a formal letter on her firm’s letterhead. It said that any further contact with me, my property, or my daughter for the purpose of discussing the property would be documented and reported. It said the box on my porch would be available for pickup on Thursday between 4 and 5 p.m., with a police officer present.
He sent his brother to get it.
On Tuesday, I called my homeowner’s insurance agent, a cheerful woman named Debbie, and asked her to note the incident on my file. Then I called all three credit bureaus and put a fraud alert on my credit report. If Mark could forge my signature on a lease, I didn’t want to find out later what else he might have signed my name to.
Then I went down to the county recorder’s office in person and asked to see the records on my house. A clerk printed everything for me. The deed. The mortgage. Nothing else. No liens, no strange filings.
I sat in my car in the parking lot holding those printed pages, and I let out a breath I had been holding for four days.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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