Nothing from Eleanor ever came without a purpose. She did not call to comfort, to grieve, or to ask how I was doing. She called to control the story. She called to remind people that in her mind, she was still the queen of every room, and everyone else was either useful or in her way. I let the phone ring one extra time, took a slow sip of coffee, and answered in the calmest voice I could manage.
“Hello, Eleanor.”
“I’ve sold the house.”
No greeting. No softness. No attempt to sound decent. Her voice was polished and smug, the way it always became when she believed she had finally won.
“The papers are signed. The new owners move in next week. I hope you’ve learned something about respecting your elders, Harper.”
For three seconds, I said nothing.
My name is Harper Sterling, and the house Eleanor was talking about was my childhood home. It was a sprawling Victorian-craftsman house with a wraparound porch, a stained-glass window on the landing, an upstairs claw-foot tub, and an old back staircase my father, Arthur, always said was the soul of the place. It was where I learned to read by the fireplace and where I had hidden under the dining table as a child during storms while Dad pretended the sky was only moving its furniture around. FamilyLaw
And according to Eleanor, she had just taken it from me.
“The house?” I asked evenly. “You mean Dad’s house?”
