“Just to the door, please,” I replied, my voice still raspy from the hospital’s dry air. “My son should be waiting.”
The front door opened before we reached it. Steven stood in the doorway, but not with the welcoming smile I expected. His expression was cold, distant, resolute—a look I’d never seen before on the face of the child I’d raised.
“Mom.” His voice matched his face: detached, formal.
Behind him, I glimpsed movement in my living room. His wife Jessica, and were those her parents?
“Steven, what’s going on?” I asked, stepping forward with my cane.
He blocked the entrance, not moving aside. “You shouldn’t have come here. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
The taxi driver set my suitcase beside me, sensing the tension. I paid him quickly, suddenly wishing he wouldn’t leave.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” Steven continued as the taxi pulled away. “Things have changed while you were hospitalized. The house isn’t yours anymore.”
A chill ran through me. “What are you talking about?”
“We’ve made arrangements. Jessica’s parents needed to relocate from Seattle. This house has way more space than you need. The paperwork’s been signed. You’ll need to find another living situation.”
