The smell of smoke still clung to my clothes three days after the fire. I stood in what used to be my living room, staring at the charred skeleton of my piano, the instrument where I’d taught my son Michael to play “Clair de Lune” when he was seven. The fire marshal said it started in the kitchen.
Probably faulty wiring in the old house. Sixty-three years I’d lived in that colonial on Maple Street in Rochester, New York. Sixty-three years.
And now it was ash. “Mom, you can’t stay in a hotel forever,” Michael had said on the phone that morning, his voice tight with concern. “Caroline and I insist.
We have plenty of room. You’ll stay with us until we figure things out.”
I didn’t want to be a burden. I’d raised Michael to be independent, self-sufficient, but my savings were modest, and the insurance company was dragging their feet about the claim.
The adjuster had visited twice, asking strange questions about whether I’d been having financial difficulties. The insinuation stung, but I kept my composure. At sixty-eight, I’d learned that patience and politeness opened more doors than anger ever could.
So, I’d agreed. Just temporarily, I told myself, as Michael loaded my three salvaged suitcases into his Mercedes, just until the insurance came through. Their house in Brighton was impressive, the kind of place you see in glossy suburban magazines.
A sprawling Victorian with a circular driveway, a neatly edged lawn, and perfectly manicured hedges. An American flag fluttered from a white porch column, and the neighbors’ mailboxes were all identical, lined up like soldiers. Caroline met us at the door, framed by the stained-glass transom.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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