At Christmas dinner, my mom smirked.
“We finally sold Grandma’s house. You were never in the will anyway.”
My sister laughed.
“Good. She just wasted it.”
I took a sip of wine and said,
“Cool. Hope you enjoy the cash since I’m the one who bought it.”
My name is Janet, and here’s how my story begins.
The table went silent. The dining room smelled like rosemary and roasted turkey, but all I could taste was the bitterness coating my tongue as my mother’s words hung in the air. Christmas lights twinkled outside the frost-covered windows, while inside, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.
“We finally sold Grandma’s house. You were never in the will anyway,”
Mom had announced, her voice dripping with satisfaction as she reached for the bowl of mashed potatoes.
Victoria had let out this high-pitched laugh that grated against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
“Good. She just wasted it on whatever ridiculous hobby she’s into this month.”
I set down my fork, carefully biting back the urge to let my hands shake. This was it, the moment I’d been waiting for since August, when I’d first heard through Aunt Paula that they were planning to sell Grandma Dorothy’s Victorian house on Maple Street, the home where I’d spent every summer of my childhood, learning to bake lemon cookies in her sunny kitchen and listening to her stories on the wraparound porch.
Dad kept his eyes on his plate, cutting his turkey into smaller and smaller pieces. He had perfected the art of disappearing without leaving the room years ago. I reached for my wine glass, took a slow sip of the Merlot, and let the silence stretch just long enough to make them uncomfortable.
“Cool. Hope you enjoy the cash since I’m the one who bought it.”
Mom’s fork clattered against her china plate. Victoria’s mouth fell open mid-chew, a piece of stuffing visible on her tongue. Even Dad looked up, his eyes wide behind his glasses.
“What did you just say, Janet?”
Mom’s voice came out strangled, barely above a whisper.
I smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
“I said, I bought it through an LLC. Actually, Sterling Properties Management. The paperwork went through last week.”
Victoria recovered first, always quicker to anger than shock.
“You’re lying. That’s impossible. We got $275,000 for that house.”
“$285,000, actually,”
I corrected, taking another sip of wine.
“I overbid by ten thousand to make sure you’d accept. The realtor said you were motivated sellers.”
Mom’s face had gone from red to white, a vein pulsing at her temple.
“This is some kind of sick joke.”
