I didn’t call.
I didn’t confront anyone.
I waited.
On Tuesday afternoon, I heard a car pull into the driveway.
Before they arrived, I had arranged everything in the living room.
Victor’s brass urn sat on the mantel.
Beside it was his Marine Corps ring, a framed photograph of him in uniform, a copy of his revised will, and the official police evidence receipt for the diluted morphine bottle.
Sarah and the estate notary sat quietly on the sofa.
The front door unlocked.
Mom walked in wearing a fresh tan and carrying a new designer shoulder bag.
Mason and Chloe followed behind her, dragging rolling suitcases and laughing.
“Maya!” my mother called out from the foyer. “I hope you aired this place out. It smelled like a nursing home when we left!”
Then she walked into the living room.
She saw the mantel.
Stopped.
Her smile vanished.
