I explained the situation.
She listened without interrupting.
Then she said, “Do Sarah and Greg have a written lease?”
“No.”
“Do they pay rent?”
“No.”
“Have they ever paid rent?”
“No.”
“How long have they lived there?”
“Two years.”
There was a pause.
“All right. Do not change the locks while they are still lawful occupants.”
I sighed.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“You can end their permission to live there, but we need to do it correctly. I can prepare written notice today.”
“How long?”
She told me.
It was longer than I wanted.
But after two years, I could survive a few more weeks if it meant there would be no legal confusion.
“Also,” she added, “secure your financial documents immediately.”
That sentence made me think about David’s warning.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve told me your son-in-law has shown interest in the house and your daughter has access to the property. Do you keep tax records, deeds, bank statements there?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should inventory everything.”
I drove home.
Sarah’s car was in the driveway.
Greg’s truck was not.
I sat at the curb for a full minute.
Then I pulled in.
The front door was unlocked.
I entered my own house.
Sarah came out of the kitchen almost immediately.
Her expression was unbelievable.
She looked offended.
“There you are.”
Not Mom.
Not I’m sorry.
There you are.
“Your phone is working again,” I said.
“I had to call the carrier from a neighbor’s phone and pay the balance myself.”
“Good.”
She blinked.
“What is wrong with you?”
I put my purse down.
“Where’s Greg?”
“Looking for work.”
I almost laughed.
Instead I walked toward the stairs.
Sarah followed.
“You embarrassed Lily.”
I stopped.
Turned around.
“She spat on my food.”
“She was joking.”
“She said you told her I deserved it.”
Sarah crossed her arms.
“She misunderstood.”
“Did she?”
“Mom, she’s a child.”
“Yes.”
I took one step toward her.
“And you’re her mother.”
For the first time, Sarah’s face changed.
A little.
Not remorse.
Annoyance losing its confidence.
“I’m not doing this.”
“Neither am I.”
I went upstairs.
“Where are you going?”
“To my bedroom.”
“Why?”
I turned.
“Because I live here.”
Sarah gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“So do we.”
“Not for much longer.”
Her expression went blank.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Denise Marshall is preparing formal notice.”
Sarah stared at me.
Then smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
“You’re evicting your granddaughter?”
“I am ending an arrangement that should have lasted a few months.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“This is our home too.”
“No.”
Her face reddened.
“Dad would be disgusted with you.”
The sentence landed harder than I expected.
Robert.
Five years gone, and Sarah could still reach into my grief and use him as a weapon.
She saw the reaction.
And pressed.
“Dad would never throw us onto the street.”
I looked at her for several seconds.
Then I remembered something Robert had once said after Sarah borrowed money and failed to repay it.
She thinks every consequence is cruelty if it happens to her.
My voice was steady.
“Your father isn’t here.”
Sarah’s eyes hardened.
“No. He isn’t.”
Then she said something I would remember later.
Something that meant nothing to me then.
“But if he were, this house wouldn’t be completely yours either.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
For the first time, she looked startled.
“I mean David has inheritance rights.”
“No, he doesn’t. The house passed to me.”
“I know that.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“Nothing.”
She walked away.
Too quickly.
Robert’s study was at the end of the upstairs hallway.
After his death, I had barely changed it.
His law books still occupied one shelf even though he had never been a lawyer; he simply liked reading legal history.
His old camera sat beside the window.
The framed photograph of our family at Yellowstone still faced the desk.
Sarah was seventeen in that picture.
David was fourteen.
Robert had his hand on my shoulder.
We had looked ordinary.
Happy.
I sat in his chair.
For a moment, grief swallowed everything else.
I could almost smell his aftershave.
Then I remembered David’s words.
Check Dad’s desk.
The bottom drawer was locked.
I searched the desk.
No key.
I checked Robert’s old key box in the closet.
Nothing fit.
I finally called a locksmith.
When he arrived an hour later, Sarah demanded to know what I was doing.
“Opening my desk.”
“It was Dad’s.”
“And now it belongs to me.”
Her face went strangely pale.
That was the moment I became truly suspicious.
The locksmith opened the drawer in less than two minutes.
Inside were tax folders.
Insurance documents.
Old receipts.
Nothing dramatic.
Sarah stood in the hallway pretending not to watch.
