Dad walked her to the door. They spoke in the hallway, low and brief. When he returned, he looked shaken.
“She’s moving in with Denise for a while,” he said.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She said the house feels haunted.”
I almost said, It should.
Instead I said, “Good.”
Not because I wanted my mother miserable.
Because for the first time, she had chosen not to stand in a burning room and insist everyone else was dramatic for smelling smoke.
On January thirtieth, the old house stood almost empty.
I went there with Evelyn, Maya, and a locksmith.
The thirty days were nearly complete, and because my father had cooperated while my mother had vacated voluntarily, the legal process was cleaner than anyone expected. Brent had sent three threatening emails, then stopped after Maya replied with one paragraph containing the words “fraud,” “civil action,” and “preservation of evidence.”
