The first call came just after dusk. “My key doesn’t work,” Hannah said, her voice barely a whisper. “It won’t go in. I think they changed the lock.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“Grandma. Maybe Aunt Brittany.”
I rubbed my forehead, trying to stay calm. “They wouldn’t do that without telling me. Try calling again.”
“I did. No one’s answering.”
“Keep trying, honey. Someone will open the door soon.”
But two hours later, four missed calls and a single text changed everything: Mom, I think they’re here. Please come.
When I called back, she was crying. “Grandma said we don’t live here anymore.”
By the time I reached the house, rain was falling in silver sheets. Hannah sat on the porch steps, soaked through, clutching her backpack. I wrapped her in my arms, my pulse hammering. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I whispered.
The porch light flicked on. My mother stood there with a wine glass, perfectly composed. “Elena,” she said sweetly. “What are you doing here?”
“You changed the locks,” I replied.
“We needed privacy,” she said. “It’s better this way. Less tension.”
Behind her, Brittany appeared, smirking. Her kids were sprawled on the couch, my daughter’s daisy blanket folded neatly beside them. I didn’t argue. I just said, “Understood.” Then I took Hannah’s hand and walked away.
As we drove, the rain tapped against the windshield in time with my heartbeat. “Are we going to be okay?” Hannah asked.
“Of course,” I said, though part of me wasn’t sure yet.
The truth was, this betrayal didn’t start tonight—it started years ago. My mother’s love was always conditional, measured in obedience and appearances. Brittany, five years older, was the golden child; I was the mistake that never quite shined. Our father, a quiet doctor, tried to bridge the gap, but after his long hours, the effort faded.
Then came his illness. I moved back home with Hannah to care for him while my mother poured wine and excuses. When he passed, she called it a “fresh start” and began redecorating, erasing his presence room by room. I overheard her tell Brittany, “Elena won’t stay much longer.”
I was supposed to leave quietly. But Dad had left something behind—something they didn’t know about yet.
