“What petition?”
For the first time, Sabine looked cornered by someone other than me.
“It was just a draft,” she said.
Her mother’s lips parted.
Darien whispered, “You told her?”
Sabine spun toward him.
“I told her we needed options.”
“You told me Coralie was forgetting bills,” her mother said.
I stepped forward.
“My bills are paid through the end of the month.
The utilities are on auto-pay.
My taxes are current.
My insurance is current.
Would you like the receipts? They are in the blue folder your daughter did not know existed.”
No one spoke.
The house seemed to listen.
Sabine’s brother shifted backward, closer to the door.
Lenora said, “Mom, hand Darien the notice.
Not Sabine.
Darien.”
I took the paper from the folder and held it out to my son.
His hand trembled when he accepted it.
The notice gave them twenty-four hours to remove their personal belongings voluntarily and required immediate restoration of my bedroom or payment for damages.
It also revoked permission for any further changes to the property and barred Sabine’s family from entering without my consent.
Darien read every line.
Sabine read over his shoulder and hissed, “Do not accept that.”
He looked at her.
“We did this, Sabine.”
“We?”
“Yes,” he said, voice breaking.
“We.”
She stared at him like he had slapped her.
Then she made her worst mistake.
“Without me, you would still be begging your mother for grocery money,” she said.
“I was the one trying to turn this house into something useful.
I was the one who found out what it was worth.
I was the one who talked to the loan officer.”
Darien’s head snapped up.
So did mine.
Lenora went silent for half a second.
That was all she needed.
“What loan officer?” she asked.
Sabine froze.
Darien turned slowly.
“What loan officer?”
Her mother closed her eyes as if she had been waiting for this shoe to drop.
Sabine’s mouth tightened.
“I made an inquiry.
That’s all.”
“Against whose property?” Lenora asked.
No answer.
I thought of the mail Sabine had offered to sort.
The bank statements she had carried from the mailbox.
The way she had asked what my late husband’s full legal name was while pretending to admire an old anniversary card.
My knees did not fail me.
