Chapter 6
The next morning, I sat across from Denise with the proposed transfer documents spread between us.
I hadn't slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured Vanessa standing on my porch.
Her hand reaching for my keys.
Her voice demanding that I surrender my home.
Now I understood what that demand had meant.
It hadn't been about needing shelter.
It had been about control.
Denise studied the papers carefully.
"These documents appear to have been prepared but not properly executed or recorded."
I exhaled.
"So my house is safe?"
"Your recorded ownership interests remain intact. We'll confirm the title status again and keep monitoring."
I nodded.
Lorraine sat beside me.
"What about the signatures?"
Denise pointed toward the page.
"One appears to be an attempted reproduction of Evelyn's signature."
I stared at it.
It looked almost right.
The first letter of my name curved the way I usually wrote it.
But the final stroke was wrong.
I knew immediately.
"That's not mine."
Denise nodded.
"We'll provide that information to the investigator."
I pressed my hands together.
"Someone practiced writing my name."
The realization made me feel strangely violated.
My signature was personal.
I'd used it to buy our first car.
To sign Marcus's school forms.
To arrange Thomas's funeral.
To close the mortgage on the house we'd worked so hard to own.
And someone had tried to turn it into a weapon against me.
Lorraine leaned closer.
"Evie, look at me."
I turned.
"You're here. You're making decisions. They didn't get your home."
I breathed slowly.
"You're right."
But fear doesn't disappear just because someone says the danger has passed.
I needed time.
That afternoon, Marcus came over.
He arrived alone.
No suitcases.
No demands.
No Vanessa.
He stood on my porch holding a small paper bag.
"Mom?"
I opened the door.
"Hello, Marcus."
He looked nervous.
"Can we talk?"
I stepped aside.
He entered the kitchen.
Then he placed the bag on the counter.
"Blueberry muffins."
I stared at him.
"From Henderson's Bakery?"
He nodded.
"Your favorite."
I almost smiled.
When Marcus was little, he'd used his allowance to buy me those muffins on Mother's Day.
He always ate two before giving me the bag.
I looked at him.
"Did you eat any?"
His mouth twitched.
"One."
Despite myself, I laughed.
For a moment, he looked relieved.
Then the laughter disappeared.
"Mom, I moved out."
I sat down.
"From the apartment?"
He nodded.
"I'm staying with Daniel."
Daniel was his childhood friend.
I'd known him since the boys were in middle school.
"Does Vanessa know?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
Marcus stared at his hands.
"I asked her about the messages."
I became still.
"What did she say?"
"She told me I misunderstood."
He swallowed.
"Then I showed her the loan application."
I watched him.
"She got angry."
"How angry?"
"She said I was weak. That I was letting you control me."
I shook my head.
He continued.
"She said married people should put their marriage first."
I looked at him.
"Marriage doesn't require betraying your mother."
"I know that now."
His voice cracked.
"She told me the house was wasted on you."
I felt the words like a slap.
"What?"
"She said you were one old woman living in a house big enough for five people."
I stared at my son.
"Did you agree?"
His eyes filled.
"No."
"Did you ever?"
He lowered his head.
For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he whispered, "Sometimes."
I looked away.
It hurt more because he told the truth.
Marcus began crying.
"Mom, I thought you should downsize."
I stared at the table.
"I thought maybe we could all live here for a while, and eventually you'd want somewhere smaller."
I swallowed.
"And did you ask me?"
"No."
"Did you ever consider that I love this home?"
He nodded miserably.
"Not enough."
I closed my eyes.
For years, I'd told myself that Marcus was simply young.
That he'd mature.
That he'd eventually understand.
But he was thirty-three.
He was old enough to know that another person's home wasn't his to claim.
I looked at him.
"Your father and I built our life here."
"I know."
"We made sacrifices."
"I know."
"This house isn't waiting for you to inherit it, Marcus. It's where I still live."
He began crying harder.
"I'm sorry."
I let the silence settle.
Then I asked, "What are you going to do now?"
He wiped his cheeks.
"I'm getting legal advice about separating from Vanessa."
I nodded.
"And?"
"I'm going to cooperate with the investigation."
"Good."
He looked up.
"Will you ever trust me again?"
I studied his face.
"I hope so."
His shoulders shook.
"But trust isn't rebuilt with muffins."
He gave a broken laugh.
"I know."
"It's rebuilt with honesty."
He nodded.
"And time."
"I understand."
I reached across the table.
He took my hand.
For the first time in months, I felt as though I was speaking to my real son.
Not the man Vanessa pushed toward my house.
Not the frightened husband trying to please everyone.
My son.
Imperfect.
Ashamed.
But finally willing to tell the truth.
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
"Mom."
I frowned.
"What?"
He turned the phone toward me.
It was a message from Vanessa.
"If your mother thinks changing the deed will stop me, she's wrong."
Another message appeared.
"Tell her to enjoy that house while she still can."
I stared at the screen.
Then looked at Marcus.
"Send those to Denise."
He nodded.
But before he could move, a third message arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
My house.
Taken from across the street.
May you like
And underneath it were four words.
"I'M NOT FINISHED YET."
