We laughed, the sound tentative at first, then more genuine.
Years of hurt didn’t vanish in one afternoon. But something shifted. The distance between us, woven from silences and misunderstandings, began to thin.
Victoria made one final attempt to reclaim the house about a week later.
I was in the kitchen, carefully prying off one of the bland white backsplash tiles to reveal the edge of one of our old hand-painted ones beneath, when I heard the unmistakable slam of a car door.
I sighed, already bracing myself.
She walked in like she still owned the place, trailed by a well-dressed woman carrying a leather portfolio and wearing high heels entirely unsuited for the sandy path.
“This is the real estate agent,” Victoria announced. “We’re getting the house appraised. It’s wasted on you, Alexandra. You clearly can’t appreciate its market value.”
I wiped tile dust off my hands and leaned against the counter.
“Market value,” I repeated. “Right.”
The agent opened her portfolio, flipping through some documents, trying to maintain her professional smile despite the tension in the room. “Mrs. Harrison said—”