That’s what she called it. Like my house—my own house—was something you’d find in a museum instead of something I’d fought for.
We sat down to dinner. Benjamin couldn’t stop looking at her. Couldn’t stop smiling.
My boy was gone.
Completely gone.
And she knew it.
“So, Grace,” Leah said, cutting her pot roast into perfect little pieces. “Benjamin tells me you’ve lived here for years. Do you own this house?”
First red flag.
“I do,” I said. “This is my house.”
“That’s wonderful.” She took a sip of water. “Real estate in this neighborhood has really appreciated, hasn’t it? You must have quite an asset here.”
“It’s my home,” I said.
“Of course.” Another smile—one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I just mean, you’re sitting on a gold mine. Have you ever thought about selling, moving somewhere more manageable? At your age, all this upkeep must be exhausting.”
She’d known me for fifteen minutes and she was already calculating my expiration date.
Benjamin jumped in.
“Mom loves this house, Leah. She’s not going anywhere.”
“Oh, I know,” Leah said quickly—too quickly. “I just worry about her. It’s such a big house for one person.”
I set down my fork slowly.
“I manage just fine.”
“I’m sure you do.”
She reached across the table and patted my hand, patronizing like I was a child who needed reassurance.
“Benjamin just talks about you so much,” she said. “He worries, you know. We both do.”
They’d been dating four months and she was already speaking for both of them.
I looked at my son.
He was staring at Leah like she’d hung the moon.
After dinner, while Benjamin was in the bathroom, Leah wandered through my living room—touching things, picking up picture frames, running her fingers along the mantle.
“You have so many family photos,” she said. “It must be hard being here alone with all these memories.”
“I like my memories,” I said.
“Of course you do.”
She picked up a photo of William.
