Then she added, barely audible, “And remember, the house—I’m leaving it to you and your mother.
The lawyer has my will.”
Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to tell her not to worry, that everything would be fine. But we both knew better.
When she passed away, everything changed.
Karen flew in looking like she’d walked off a magazine cover.
She wore a black dress that probably cost more than our entire grocery budget for the month, and her heels clicked across the church floor like they didn’t belong there.
At the wake, she walked around the house like a realtor on a property tour, eyes skimming the china cabinet, the antique dresser in the hallway.
Three days after the funeral, she showed up at the front door with a crisp folder in hand. I’ll never forget her voice, cold and almost triumphant.
“The house is mine. Mom left it to me.”
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