I flew to Key West the next morning, and for six days I lived in a version of life that felt almost fictional. I slept with the balcony door cracked to hear the water. I watched the sky lighten over the ocean before most people were awake. I read cheap thrillers, drank coffee I didn’t make myself, and drove the Overseas Highway with no podcast on because, for once, I didn’t want anyone’s voice in my ear.
On the seventh morning, I turned my phone back on over breakfast.
It exploded.
Nineteen missed calls from my mother. Twelve from my father. Seven from Savannah.
A text from Dad: Important update about the house. Call now.
Another from Mom: “We handled something for you. You need to hear the numbers.”
Another from Savannah: “Finally leveled the playing field. You can always crash on my couch lol.”
I stared at the screen while my coffee went cold.
When I finally called, my mother answered on the first ring.
“Well,” she said brightly, “there you are.”
“I’m in Key West. Why do I have almost forty missed calls?”
“We handled something for you.”
Something in me went cold. “What did you handle?”
“Your house,” she said.
I said nothing.
“It’s sold.”