I sat there holding the phone, staring at the deed in my other hand. 43 years of memories in this house.
43 years of love and sacrifice and putting everyone else’s needs before my own. And this was what it had earned me. Orders to clean baseboards and water golf clubs while they lived it up in paradise. But as I sat there in the growing darkness of my bedroom, something shifted inside me. Something that had been dormant for too long, buried under years of making myself smaller and smaller to accommodate other people’s comfort. I stood up, smoothed down my robe, and walked to the kitchen. Rya’s detailed cleaning list sat on the counter, three pages long, written in her perfect handwriting. Roomby room instructions, down to scrubbing behind the toilets and organizing the spice rack alphabetically.
I picked up the list, read it once more, then walked to the fireplace in the living room. The fire I’d lit that morning was still burning low, just glowing embers. now.
I held the papers above the flames and let them go
I held the papers above the flames and let them go as Rya’s perfect handwriting curled and blackened and turned to ash. I felt something I hadn’t experienced in years. Not anger. Anger was exhausting and useless. Not hurt. I’d carried enough hurt to last several lifetimes. What I felt was clarity. They thought they were coming home to a clean house and a grateful servant. They were wrong on both counts. I called Harold Peterson first thing Monday morning. Harold had been our family lawyer for 28 years, handling everything from my husband’s will to Marcus’ business incorporation papers. His secretary, Mrs. Chen, recognized my voice immediately. Dela, how lovely to hear from you.
