She Pointed at the Dog Bed. She Had No Idea Whose House It Was.

She shrugged, the way you'd shrug off a question about weather. "Robert's gone. The will leaves everything to Matthew. This house isn't yours anymore. We're letting you stay out of kindness, but we're not supporting someone with no income."

For a moment I heard nothing but my own heartbeat, because I knew something Jennifer didn't. That wasn't what Robert's estate plan actually said. And I knew, with total certainty, that she was lying to a room full of witnesses who wouldn't dare correct her.

"Mom," Matthew finally mumbled. "Just... give it some time."

Jennifer laughed. "Don't confuse her. We'll put a small bed in the service room by the garage. If Max doesn't need the space."

Max was the family Labrador.

Something hot rose in my chest. Every curtain in that house had been chosen by me. Every holiday dinner had been cooked in that kitchen. Every memory hanging on those walls belonged to forty-two years I'd spent building this family, and now I was being processed like an unwanted delivery.

"Your luggage is already outside," Jennifer went on. "And if you're staying, you'll earn your place. Help around the house."