The suitcases by the door should’ve been his first clue.
When I walked into my childhood home to find some stranger wearing Mom’s robe and ordering me to leave, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just smiled and said, “Let’s wait for the lawyer.”
Colin had gotten comfortable these past months—throwing parties, erasing Mom’s presence, acting like the grieving widower when he’d barely visited her in hospice. But the will was crystal clear: the house was mine.
Watching him beg the cops for “just one more week” while his gold-digger girlfriend stormed out? Priceless.
That night, I scrubbed away their stench and put Mom’s quilt back on the bed. Some legacies can’t be stolen.
