“You have one hour,” Beverly said, voice suddenly calm now that the screaming had done its damage. “One hour to gather your things and leave.”
Howard didn’t move. Andre didn’t speak. Crystal kept filming.
I looked down at my wedding album, face-down in the grass, and something clicked—something that should’ve broken me, but didn’t:
They weren’t taking my home.
They were exposing the fact it had never been mine.
So I bent, picked up the album, wiped the mud off the cover with the sleeve of my black coat, and stood.
“Okay,” I said.
Crystal’s smile wavered for half a second, like she’d expected begging, rage, collapse. She wanted a performance. I gave her a quiet exit.
I packed my old Honda with my life. Not the expensive life they thought I’d stolen—my actual life. Scrubs. Books. Photos of Terrence and me laughing in a diner booth. A chipped mug he swore was “lucky” because it survived three moves. A sweater that still smelled like him if I pressed it to my face.
Andre carried one box down from the attic.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes shining.