He nodded.
“Three years ago.”
Three years.
Sitting in the taxi, I closed my eyes and remembered.
Ernest was at our kitchen table, his hands trembling as he signed the paperwork.
Afterward, he looked at me.
“Theresa, promise me something.”
“What?”
“Don’t let them turn this house into your punishment for surviving me.”
I promised him.
And Ernest had protected that promise.
Without telling Austin, he instructed our attorney to establish the trust.
The house, the savings connected to it, and the modest investment account we had built together were protected.
Austin knew nothing about it.
Whenever Ernest tried discussing the future, our son changed the subject.
Austin wanted to know what he would inherit.
He rarely wanted to know how his father was feeling.
That was the difference.
My phone rang again.
I answered.
“Mom.”
Austin sounded defeated.
“Where are you?”
Through the taxi window, I watched Miami’s lights beginning to glow against the dark morning.
“I’m going on vacation.”
“Mom, this isn’t funny.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just leave us like this.”
I almost laughed.
Leave them?
They had left me alone beside Ernest’s grave.
They had abandoned three cages in my living room.
They had handed me instructions while I was still dressed in mourning black.
Now they were angry because I had finally been the one to leave.
“Austin,” I said quietly, “you didn’t lose the house today.”
He stayed silent.
“You lost the right to assume that it was yours.”
His breathing became uneven.
