She was holding a small grocery bag, her eyes filled with tears.
“Tom,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Ethan says this house belongs to him now. He told me to get out.”
I felt my entire body go cold.
Without raising my voice, I took the bag from her shaking hands and led her toward a side entrance our son had apparently forgotten existed.
“Don't worry, sweetheart,” I told her. “Tonight, Ethan is going to learn exactly who owns this house—and who has the authority to tell someone to leave.”
When I first pulled into the driveway, I assumed Linda was tending to her roses.
My wife had always loved our garden.
She could spend hours caring for the flowers, especially in the late afternoon when the sun was gentle and the entire yard seemed peaceful.
But as I stepped out of my truck, something about the scene immediately unsettled me.
Linda wasn't anywhere near the rosebushes.
