So, one afternoon, I pulled down the old family photo album from the top shelf of the closet. Its pages were filled with moments—birthdays with frosting on little faces, vacations with sandy toes. I flipped through slowly, my heart aching.
Then, I slipped an envelope between the pages.
Inside were copies of the ledger entries, the credit card statements, and a handwritten note:
This is what family did to me. While I lay in a hospital bed, you chose Paris. While I struggled to breathe, you chose champagne. This house, this money, this trust—it is no longer yours. I am no longer yours. Consider this album the last memory we share.
I placed the album carefully back on the shelf, knowing it would be one of the first things they looked for when they came back.
Finally, I booked a small cottage in a quiet seaside town. Nothing grand, but it was mine. A place where no footsteps would trample my peace.
The night before I left, I walked through the empty house one last time. As I locked the door behind me, a calm smile spread across my face. For once, I wasn’t the one being left behind.
It was a Sunday afternoon when they came back.
I wasn’t there to see it, but I can picture it as clearly as if I’d been sitting across the street with a glass of iced tea.
The taxi pulled up first, heavy with luggage. Daniel stepped out, his sunglasses perched on his head, wearing the kind of smug grin that comes from weeks of luxury. His wife followed, pulling a designer bag I knew had been charged to my card. Lisa arrived in a separate car with her children, chatting loudly on her phone.
They walked up the driveway, rolling their suitcases, expecting the same home they had left behind.
Then came the first stumble.
Daniel pulled out his key, slid it into the lock, and—nothing. He frowned, tried again, jiggled it harder. Still nothing.
“Lisa,” he called over his shoulder, irritation creeping into his voice. “Did you change the lock for some reason?”
She gave him a confused look. “Why would I do that? Let me try.”
Her key failed, too. One by one they all tried, growing more frustrated. The children whined. Daniel cursed under his breath, rattling the handle like the door owed him something.
And then, Lisa pressed her face against the window.
“Daniel… the house. It’s empty.”
He shoved her aside, peering in himself. The furniture gone. The walls bare. Nothing remained but echoes. I imagine his stomach must have dropped, the color draining from his sunburnt face.
“What the hell is this?” he muttered.
The neighbors had noticed, of course. Mrs. Kendall waved cheerfully from across the street.
“Oh, hello! You just missed your mother. She moved out weeks ago.”
Their heads snapped toward her. Lisa’s jaw fell open. Daniel stalked toward the fence. “Moved? What do you mean moved? Where?”
Mrs. Kendall just blinked. “Didn’t she tell you? Packed everything up. Sold the car, too. She seemed so happy about it.”
That was when the panic truly set in. They pulled out their phones, calling me over and over. Ring after ring. My phone lit up in my cottage by the sea, where I sat sipping tea and listening to the waves.
I didn’t answer. I let the silence speak louder than I ever could.
Finally, they noticed the envelope taped to the front door. Daniel ripped it off, tore it open, and began to read.
Don’t worry. The bills are paid. The car is gone. And so am I. This house no longer belongs to you because it never did. While you were sipping champagne in Paris, I was lying in a hospital bed alone. You didn’t come. You didn’t call. But you did remember to use my money. I hope the memories you made were worth the cost. Because you’ve lost me, and everything I once gave so freely.
By the time they finished, their children were asking questions. “Where’s Grandma?”
And there stood Daniel and Lisa, faces pale, clutching a letter that told them what they never thought possible. Their safety net had been cut. Their mother—the one they mocked, ignored, and drained dry—had finally vanished from their grasp.
I imagined Daniel’s anger boiling over, Lisa’s tears. But none of that reached me. In my quiet little cottage, I set the phone aside, stretched my legs, and smiled.
For the first time in decades, I wasn’t the one waiting by the door. They were.
It didn’t take long for them to track me down. A week, maybe less. Records are hard to hide completely when angry children are searching for their lost inheritance.
I was sitting in my little seaside cottage one afternoon, the salty breeze drifting in through the window, when I heard the sound of a car door slamming outside. Heavy, aggressive footsteps followed. Then came the pounding on the door.
I didn’t move right away. I just sat there sipping my tea, letting them stew in their impatience.
Finally, I rose and opened the door.
Daniel stood there, his face flushed with anger, his tie loose around his neck as though he’d driven straight from the city without bothering to adjust himself. Lisa hovered behind him, her eyes red from crying, arms folded tight across her chest.
“Mom!” Daniel barked, pushing past me into the cottage without asking. “What the hell is going on? The locks are changed. The house is empty. The car is gone. Where is everything?”
I shut the door quietly behind him and walked back to my chair.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
