I sold the idea of moving away a hundred times. I’d stand on the deck looking out at the water and think: this house holds too much. But then Sophie would come over and sprawl on the living room floor doing homework, and Catherine would make tea in my kitchen like she belonged there, and I’d remember the house also held Catherine’s childhood laughter, held Christmas mornings, held Catherine’s wedding photos, held years of good that didn’t deserve to be evicted because of one woman’s evil.
So I stayed.
Instead, I changed the house. Small changes that reminded my nervous system the space was mine again. I repainted the study where Margaret used to take her calls. I moved furniture. I replaced the lock on the medicine cabinet with one only Catherine and I could open. I installed cameras—not because I expected danger, but because safety is sometimes built from tools, not trust.
Sophie asked once if the cameras made me feel better.
“Yes,” I admitted.
She nodded thoughtfully. “Me too,” she said.