“Because Grandma said we don't live here anymore.”
I froze.
“What?”
Lily's eyes filled with tears.
“She opened the door a little.”
My heart was pounding.
“What exactly did she say?”
Lily swallowed.
“She said, ‘You and your mother don't live here anymore. Go somewhere else.’”
I stared at the house.
Our house.
The place where my daughter had grown up.
The place where my father had spent his final days.
The place I had cared for him until the end.
Then the front door opened.
My mother stood there.
Dry.
Warm.
Completely calm.
She looked at Lily.
Then at me.
“You should have known this was coming,” she said.
I couldn't believe her.
“Mom, it's pouring rain. She's eleven.”
Margaret folded her arms.
“That isn't my problem anymore.”
Lily squeezed my hand.
Then my mother said something that made my blood run cold.
“Your father left instructions before he died.”
I stared at her.
MY 11-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER CAME HOME SOAKING WET—BUT HER KEY WOULDN’T WORK. THEN MY OWN MOTHER TOLD HER, “YOU DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE.”
