Mr. Brennan was Daniel’s estate attorney. I hadn’t heard a word from him. Vanessa said he was “unavailable” and that a junior associate somewhere had “handled everything.”
“Where will I go?” I asked.
My voice was calm. Flat as a table.
Vanessa shrugged. “That’s not really our problem, is it? You’re sixty-eight. You must have savings. Social Security. Robert and I have our own family to think about.”
They didn’t have children. Vanessa had been “trying” for seven years, which apparently meant monthly spa weekends and refusing to see a fertility specialist because “the universe will provide when the time is right.”
Robert finally lifted his head. “Mom, don’t—”
Vanessa’s hand shot out and gripped his arm. Burgundy nails. I remembered those nails tapping the table at Christmas while I served dinner. She’d asked for an organic turkey. I cooked an organic turkey. She said it was dry.
“Your mother is a grown woman,” she said. “She’ll figure it out. We’ve been more than generous letting her stay this long after the funeral.”
Five days. She called that generous.
Linda stood. “Margaret, you’ve always been so independent. I’m sure you have a plan.”
Her smile was tight and fake. We hadn’t been close since 1987, when I married Daniel and she married a car salesman who walked out three years later. She’d been bitter ever since.
“I’ll need a few hours to pack,” I said.
“Of course!” Vanessa said brightly. “Take your time. We’ll be out until six. Robert has a meeting with the estate planner.”
They left. I heard the front door shut, then the chirp of the car unlocking. Robert’s Audi, leased at $680 a month. I knew the number because he’d asked to borrow two thousand dollars the previous November when he “came up short.” I gave it to him out of my savings. He never paid it back.
The house went quiet.
I stood in my living room. The couch I reupholstered myself in 2004. The coffee table Daniel built in the garage and sanded for weeks until it felt like silk. The curtains I sewed by hand in 1989 to match the wallpaper.
Vanessa had already stuck yellow Post-it notes on half the furniture.
Sell. Donate. Trash.
My wedding china sat in a cardboard box by the door marked DONATE.
I climbed the stairs to our bedroom. The bed was made. I had made it that morning out of habit.
Daniel’s closet was empty. His suits, the ties I straightened every Sunday before church. Gone. Probably dropped at Goodwill before he was even in the ground.
I opened my own closet. Three of my dresses were missing. The good ones. The blue Talbots dress I saved two months to buy.
On the bed sat a neat stack of papers.
I recognized the letterhead. Whitmore and Associates, Attorneys at Law. Not Mr. Brennan’s firm. A Post-it on top, in Vanessa’s loopy handwriting.
Sign here, here, and here.
Voluntary Transfer of Property to Robert J. Hayes. Witness: Linda Schultz.
Voluntary.
I sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped in the same spot it had for twenty years, where Daniel used to sit and take off his shoes. I could still smell him. Old Spice and the peppermint lozenges he kept in his coat.
My hand found the key again.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
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