My son swallowed. Hard.
“We thought—”
“That was your first mistake,” I said softly. Priscilla crossed her arms. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“That,” I said, “is a problem created without me.
Solve it without me.”
The officer stepped aside, giving me a clear view into the home I’d restored with my late husband. The crown molding William and I sanded by hand. The banister he polished until it shone like honey.
The fireplace where we opened stockings every Christmas morning. Behind me, a breeze moved across the porch. I felt taller than I had in months.
“Mom,” my son whispered, voice cracking, “please don’t do this. We… we were scared. We thought you wouldn’t come home.”
“Then you should have waited to see if I did,” I replied.
Silence spread out like snowfall. The investigator cleared his throat. “Mrs.
Rolfe, when you’re ready, you may reenter your home.”
I looked past my son, past his trembling wife, past the strangers standing on my hardwood floors. Then, like a gavel concluding a case everyone thought they’d already won, I said:
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Pack everything you brought.
Leave my things where they belong.”
My son opened his mouth, but whatever apology or argument had gathered there died on his tongue. I turned, cane clicking once against the porch step. Behind me, the officer spoke the final blow:
“And for clarity—ma’am, you were right.
Paper is only paper. Ownership is something else entirely.”
I walked to the sedan as if escorted by the memory of the woman I’d almost stopped being. When the door closed, I exhaled.
Not in sadness. In reclamation. Tomorrow, the house would be mine again.
Tonight, they would learn the cost of forgetting who built the life they tried to steal. And as we drove away, I whispered the same two words I’d said on that porch—but this time, they meant something entirely different. “Enjoy it.”
