For Fourteen Years My Son Lived Rent-Free in a House He Believed Was His
By five o’clock the sea mist had drifted back over the balcony.
I took my leather folder to the kitchen table and sat down beside the window.
In the folder was Evelyn’s handwritten letter from six months before she died, its blue ink a little faded along the top edge.
Her words reminded me to choose my own peace over paying for endless demands.
I put Evelyn’s reading glasses next to the folder and wiped the lenses with my handkerchief.
I set the bank’s trust confirmation papers on the left side of the folder.
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