By thirty-two, I had built a life that looked modest from the outside but solid from where I stood. I had a growing business, a decent reputation, routines that made sense, and a sleek modern house near Briar Glen that most people assumed I owned outright. I let them assume. Sometimes privacy is the only fence that really works.
The night before a vacation, I did what I always did after short-term tenants checked out. I checked the locks, ran the faucets, opened the fridge, looked under the sinks, and walked through the rooms in the clean, neutral silence of a place no one was emotionally living in. My suitcase stood by the door. The backyard lights clicked on at dusk, throwing warm gold across the deck. For a second, I let myself enjoy the view.
Then my mother called.
“Text when you land,” she said. No hello. No how are you.
“I will.”
“Don’t post too much.”
I leaned against the back slider. “Of the beach?”
“You know how people get. Jealous. Nosy.”
I almost laughed. “My business for the next week is sunscreen.”
Her tone tightened, then softened the way it always did after pressure. “Have fun, honey.”
“I plan to.”