“Then you’re breaking my heart.”
And that was the last time I ever saw him. Or so I believed.
The phone rang, pulling me back into the present. I already knew who it was before I picked up.
“Evelyn, honey, it’s Raymond. Just checking in on my favorite cousin.”
Favorite cousin. We’d barely spoken in 30 years. But since I’d moved back, Raymond called almost every week, always cheerful, always circling the same questions.
“How’s the apartment treating you? Rent’s a killer at our age, isn’t it?” he said.
“I’m managing, Raymond.”
“You got everything squared away? Paperwork, will, that sort of thing? A woman living alone needs to be careful.”
I forced a smile into my voice.
“I’m fine, dear. Really.”
“You know, I used to visit Aunt Margaret every week before she passed. Helped her with all
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I spent $400,000 of my inheritance to buy a seaside house with an ocean view. My mother-in-law assumed it was all thanks to her brilliant son. She laughed delightedly and said, “Perfect! I’ll move in!” I didn’t object—until she took over the master bedroom meant for my husband and me. When I saw my belongings dumped outside, my husband spoke gently, “This will be my room with my mother. You’ll sleep in the living room.” I didn’t cry. I said just one thing: “Get out of my house. You have 30 minutes.”
