“Maybe.”
Then I said the thing that landed like a gavel. “But I’d rather be alone than be used.”
Behind them, the mansion stood bright and silent, the kind of house that looks impressive right up until you remember it was bought with lies. A neighbor’s curtain shifted.
Another person watching. Another story beginning, one my family couldn’t control with tears. They kept shouting as the suited people spoke in measured tones.
My mother cried. My father cursed. Shell’s laughter turned to sobs when she realized “perfect health” didn’t protect her from the weight of what she’d done.
I watched for a moment, not with satisfaction—because satisfaction would imply this made me happy—but with something like closure. A chapter finally ending. Then I turned away.
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