“What happened to your four-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar house?” I asked, fighting tears.
Mom lowered her eyes. “Your brother and his wife sold it while I was in the hospital.”
The words hit harder than the rain.
Three months earlier, Mom had gone through heart surgery. My brother, Kyle, and his wife, Vanessa, had offered to “handle everything.” They gathered her mail, paid her bills, and stayed in her house. I had been working two states away, calling each night, trusting their cheerful updates.
“She’s resting.”
“The doctors say she’s improving.”
“Don’t worry, Claire. We’ve got it.”
They had lied with stunning ease.
Mom told us they had brought papers to the rehabilitation center and claimed they were insurance forms. Her hands were still weak then. She signed wherever Vanessa pointed. Two weeks later, Kyle told her the house needed urgent repairs and moved her into a motel. When the motel stopped being paid for, she called him.
