Her vision, dimmed by cataracts and age, hadn’t produced tears in years, but her hands—rough and cracked from years of soap and cold water—shook uncontrollably.
“Daniel, sweetheart… what are you saying?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“The land isn’t yours anymore. You signed a power of attorney years ago, remember? It’s done.”
“But this is my home. I raised you here. I worked until my hands bled at that old washbasin to pay for your bus rides, your books, your medical school in the city…”
“That’s all in the past, Mom. I’ve moved on. I have my own life, my own practice now. I can’t keep carrying this weight. The new owners will be there Friday morning.”
“Where am I supposed to go, Daniel? I can barely see… I don’t have anyone else…”
“I don’t know, Mom. That’s not my problem anymore.”
The line went dead.
Silence filled the small, worn house like something heavy and suffocating. Mrs. Harper tried to call back. Once. Twice. Again and again. Each time, the same cold automated voice answered: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”
Friday came quickly, without mercy.