Daniel pointed toward the hallway. “You have until New Year’s. Start paying your share, or find somewhere else to be dramatic.”
My sister Linda started to speak, but I lifted one finger. Not to silence her, but to prevent her from wasting her breath.
I rose.
The chair scraped across the wooden floor.
At seventy-two, I was expected to appear weak. I was supposed to shake, cry, plead, and defend myself. Instead, I walked toward the coat closet, removed my wool coat, and slipped my hand into its pocket.
There was a small brass key inside.
It did not belong to this house.
It opened the new one.
A one-story brick property in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, which I had quietly purchased three months earlier using my late husband’s life insurance and the savings Daniel assumed were gone.
“I won’t wait until New Year’s,” I said.
Daniel stared. “What?”
“I’ll leave tonight.”
Melissa laughed. “With what? Your pension check?”
“With my name on every account you’ve been living from.”
The laughter stopped.
I packed two suitcases, my medication, my jewelry case, and a framed photograph of my husband, Robert. No one offered to help. No one tried to stop me.
At nine-thirty, I drove through the falling snow toward my new home.
Before midnight, every password had been changed.
By morning, I had ended every automatic payment, every favor, and every dollar they had ever received from me.
