Claire was already there, polished and calm in a tailored dress. My mother’s sister.
My aunt, technically. She smiled at me and said, “Sweetheart,” like it tasted sweet.
The lawyer started with small things.
Grandpa’s watch to a cousin, his tools to the neighbor who fixed our fence. Then he cleared his throat and said, “The house at 14 Briar Lane goes to Claire Whitmore.”
I stared at him like he’d said my name wrong.
I turned to Claire, waiting for shock, confusion, anything human.
She crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. “Well,” she said, “it’s about time.”
“That’s my home,” I managed.
Claire’s smile sharpened. “It’s my house now.” She leaned in, voice soft.
“Sweetheart, you have until tonight to take your junk and leave.”
My lungs forgot how to work.
“Claire,” I said, “I don’t have anywhere else.” The lawyer stared at his desk, suddenly allergic to eye contact.
Claire shrugged. “Not my problem.”
I drove back to the house and packed like a person underwater.
Grandpa’s chair was still angled toward the window, his blanket folded over the arm. His coffee mug sat in the sink.
Claire hovered in the hallway, arms folded.
“Don’t take anything that isn’t yours,” she said.
When I looked at her, she smiled. “Desperate people steal.”
“What’s mine?” I snapped.
She tilted her head. “Not this.”
