“I’m staying here until we figure this out,” I said.
“Fine. Play house if you want,” she muttered, finally stepping aside. “Deborah.”
Up close, something tugged at me—the faint dimple in her left cheek I’d seen in my own mirror.
I pushed the thought away and stepped over the threshold. The place felt lived-in, cared for.
It wasn’t just a house. It was my late father’s, kept warm by a woman I’d never met.
I couldn’t tell if I was trespassing on her life or if the place had been waiting for me, along with the secrets he left behind.
And Deborah was the line he’d left out of the will.
Living under the same roof as Deborah felt like a battle I hadn’t signed up for. She seemed to relish finding ways to drive me up the wall. At midnight, she rattled pans; at dawn, the water “mysteriously” died as I brushed my teeth.
“Really, Deborah?” I muttered under my breath, staring at the dry faucet.
Her smug look when I confronted her was almost comical.
