The House That Built Secrets

Martha didn’t look like a villain, which honestly made it harder to stay angry. She was quiet, with tired eyes and hair that she always kept tied back in a messy knot with a rubber band.

She didn’t fight the eviction notice; she didn’t even cry when I told her I was moving back in and that I needed the space for my home office.

I told her flat out that I wasn’t a charity and that the market rate for a place like this in the suburbs of Seattle was more than she could ever afford on her part-time library salary. If she wanted to stay, she had to pay, and we both knew she couldn’t.

She just nodded, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and went back to folding Rosie’s onesies. She actually smiled at me—a small, sad, but genuine smile—as she carried the last box to her rusted sedan.

“I hope the house brings you the peace it brought Silas,” she said softly before driving away. I watched her taillights fade, feeling a momentary prickle of guilt that I immediately smothered with logic. It was my house, my inheritance, and my right to start my life without the clutter of my father’s second mistakes.

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