The guests scrambled to leave, clutching their coats and avoiding eye contact as they fled the brewing storm.
My mother walked to the table and pulled another hidden folder from under a seat cushion, one she had found while cleaning Kimberly’s “office.”
“It’s not just about the rooms, Bridget,” she whispered, handing me a stack of brochures for assisted living facilities and a realtor’s valuation of the house.
Kimberly had already been planning to sell the property once she convinced my parents they were too old to live independently.
“You were going to sell their home?” Jeffrey asked, his voice cracking as he looked at his wife as if she were a total stranger.
“We have debts, Jeffrey! The credit cards, the car loan, the private clinic… I thought we could start over if we just handled this correctly.”
My father pointed toward the door again, his hand steady this time.
“I don’t care about your debts, and I don’t care about your excuses; get your things and leave this house.”