Chapter 3
Dad showed me the booking records on a tablet he had brought from his car.
My house had not been sitting empty.
It had been rented out for private retreats, photo shoots, and weekend stays. Each booking had gone through a small company I had never heard of.
Desert Dawn Events.
Mom stood beside the windows, watching me read.
“You told me Grandma’s place had been sold,” I said.
“I told you her old house was gone. The small one where the photograph was taken was knocked down. This was built afterward.”
“It was still her land. It was still left to me.”
Dad sat on a stool across the island.
“I knew about the trust and the new house. I didn’t know Diane had been renting it out.”
Mom turned.
“You didn’t ask how it was paying for itself.”
“The trust paid the maintenance bills,” he said. “That’s what the account was for.”
“Maintenance doesn’t cover everything.”
I scrolled through the bookings. Some guests had paid enough for a month in my apartment. I had been paying rent to live in my parents’ guest wing while strangers stayed here.
“Where did this money go?” I asked.
Mom folded her arms.
“Into an account I managed.”
“Was any of it saved for the property?”
“I paid for repairs. Ask your father about the roof.”
Dad nodded.
“The roof was repaired. We’re checking the rest.”
Mom looked wounded that he had said we.
I put the tablet down.
“I’m not deciding anything tonight.”
“You don’t have to,” Dad said.
Mom moved toward the door.
“She gets the house, and I get treated like a thief.”
I had no answer that would make her stay and tell me more. She left without saying goodbye.
Dad watched her car go down the drive.
“Are you coming back with me?” I asked.
“No. I want to stay until you’re settled, if you’ll let me.”
I looked around the enormous kitchen.
“I don’t know where anything is.”
He smiled sadly.
“I can show you how the heat works. After that, you might want me to leave.”
He found blankets in a hall closet and showed me the guest room. I chose it instead of the larger bedroom at the end of the hall. Sleeping in the owner’s room felt impossible while I still struggled to believe I owned the walls.
Before he left, Dad stopped at my door.
“I should have given you the trust records on your birthday last year.”
“Yes.”
“I kept thinking I could straighten everything out first.”
“Were you afraid I’d be angry with Mom?”
“I was afraid you’d be angry with both of us.”
“I am.”
He nodded.
“I’ll answer what you ask.”
After he drove away, I opened Grandma’s letter.
She had written it shortly before she died. She called me her brave girl and told me about the first time we watched a storm cross the desert from her porch.
She said she had left me the land because I loved the quiet there.
Then came a paragraph I read twice.
I hope you use this gift to make choices of your own. Your mother and father will have hopes for you. I have hopes too. None of us gets to live your life for you.
I sat on the guest room floor until dawn.
The next morning, I called in sick to work and went through the rest of the box. It held utility bills, trust statements, and photographs of the house under construction.
At the bottom was a card from a lawyer named Elena Price. She had helped Grandma establish the trust.
I called her.
“I’m glad you finally have the documents,” she said after I introduced myself.
“You knew they hadn’t been given to me?”
“I knew Robert was reviewing the accounts. I told him you needed to be informed.”
“Did you know about the rentals?”
“No. I’d like to see the records before I say more.”
We arranged to meet that afternoon.
While I waited, I walked through the house. The furniture was simple and new. None of Grandma’s old rugs or books were there.
In the largest bedroom, someone had left a silk scarf on the dresser. It was Mom’s.
I checked the closet. Several of her dresses hung inside.
My phone rang.
It was Mom.
“I left things at the house,” she said. “Don’t throw them out.”
“I won’t. When were you staying here?”
“On weekends.”
“While I was paying you rent?”
“You paid a small amount, Maya.”
I had given her nearly half my monthly pay. I was too tired to argue about whether that counted as small.
“We’ll arrange for you to collect your things,” I said.
She exhaled.
“You already sound like your father’s lawyer.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened.”
“You could start by asking why I needed a place to go.”
That stopped me.
“Were you living there because of Dad?”
Mom was quiet.
May you like
“Talk to Robert,” she said.
Then she ended the call.
