At the funeral, rain fell softly over the cemetery.
I stood beside her grave while relatives whispered behind me.
Most did not bother lowering their voices.
“Gold digger.”
“He got what he wanted.”
“Four years. That’s all he had to wait.”
“He’ll probably sell the house before winter.”
Every accusation was something I had once deserved.
That made them impossible to answer.
Caroline stood near the casket with tears running down her face. When she looked at me, I expected hatred.
Instead, she simply looked exhausted.
After the burial, she approached.
“She changed her will last year.”
My stomach tightened.
I hated that the first thing my mind registered was the word will.
Caroline noticed.
A bitter smile crossed her face.
“There he is.”
I looked away.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Then she walked past me.
Three days later, Evelyn’s attorney called.
His office smelled of leather, old paper, and coffee. Caroline sat at the far end of the conference table with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Two representatives from local charities attended remotely.
The attorney began reading.
Evelyn left the house to Caroline.
I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
For nearly four years, that house had been my address.
My home.
