“Where are we supposed to live?”
She was thirty-six years old, had expensive hair, drove a leased SUV, and had lived without paying rent for three years.
My mother had also used trust money to pay her credit-card bills while calling them household expenses.
My attorney had uncovered that too.
“You have thirty days,” I said.
Her tears stopped immediately.
Frank remained in the kitchen, holding a mug between both hands.
As we prepared to leave, he finally stood.
“Claire.”
Evelyn snapped at him to remain quiet.
He ignored her.
“I am sorry.”
The words were far too late and too small for the damage.
But they were honest.
I nodded once and left with my daughter.
The following weeks were not easy.
Lily had nightmares.
She checked the locks repeatedly before sleeping.
Every afternoon, she asked whether she was truly allowed to come home, even though home was now a rented townhouse near her school.
It had two bedrooms, yellow kitchen walls, and a front door only we could open.
