Then I realized why.
The house was gone.
Not damaged.
Gone.
The yard was nothing but mud and debris. Pieces of my life were scattered everywhere: broken cabinets, blue bathroom tiles, the frame of the kitchen table.
I stood there unable to breathe.
Then I heard clapping.
Mark stepped out from beside a truck with his parents.
“Well?” he said proudly. “Finally free of that burden.”
His father nodded. “No point keeping junk.”
His mother smiled greedily.
“Now bring the inheritance.”
I stared at them.
“What inheritance?”
Scott—sorry, Mark—spoke slowly as if explaining to a child.
“Your parents are gone. We solved the house problem. My parents will move in with us. Just transfer the inheritance.”
And that’s when I laughed.
“There is no inheritance,” I said.
They froze.
“What?”
“My brother received the money months ago. Stocks, savings—everything. The house wasn’t even legally mine yet. It still belonged to my mother’s estate when you demolished it.”
Silence filled the yard.
Mark finally said, “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
His father barked, “Then get the money from your brother.”
I looked at the wreckage of my childhood home.
“No,” I said. “What I’m getting is a lawyer.”
And I did.