Chapter 3 - The Six-Day Countdown
Over the next four days, I became a ghost in their house.
I stopped cooking dinners. When Renee came home expecting a hot pot of beef stew or roast chicken on the stove, she found only pristine granite counters and an empty sink. When Daniel looked for his freshly pressed dress shirts in the laundry room, he found them hanging damp and unironed on the rack.
“Mom, did you forget to drop my suits off at the cleaners?” Daniel asked on Thursday morning, his face flushed with irritation as he rummaged through the closets. “I have a presentation with a private equity group in two hours.”
“I’m seventy-one, Daniel,” I replied, sipping black coffee at the small breakfast nook. “My memory isn't what it used to be. Besides, I wouldn't want to get in the way of your busy schedule. There’s a dry cleaner two miles down the road.”
Renee shot me a glare sharp enough to strip paint. “You seem awfully relaxed for someone who has to pack thirty years of junk, Margaret. Have you even signed a lease anywhere?”
“Everything is taken care of, dear,” I said serenely.
While they stewed in their petty indignations, an army of contractors was swarming the property on Willow Creek Lane under the direction of an elite private design firm Arthur had retained. The exterior was cleaned, the hardwood floors buffed to a rich honey sheen, and the gardens cleared of desert weeds. High-end movers, bound by ironclad non-disclosure agreements, arrived at a private storage facility where the few cherished pieces of furniture Harold and I had saved were brought out of mothballs—our handcrafted walnut dining table, Harold’s antique leather reading chair, and our collection of mid-century desert landscape paintings.
On Friday afternoon, Daniel arrived home in an ecstatic mood, slamming the front door open with a grin spreading across his face.
“Renee! Renee, get down here!” he shouted, practically vibrating with excitement.
Renee rushed down the stairs, hair tied back in a silk scarf. “What is it? Did you close the venture deal?”
“Better!” Daniel gasped, waving a printout from the regional Multiple Listing Service. “Willow Creek Lane! The cash buyer who beat us out last month? It’s an institutional holding group! My broker friend pulled the transaction record. It’s held under a private trust called H.B. Heritage Capital Group.”
Renee frowned, confused. “Why are you celebrating if someone else owns it?”
“Because,” Daniel grinned, his eyes gleaming with opportunistic ambition, “institutions don’t live in houses! They buy them for portfolio diversification or immediate leasing! My agency manages corporate leases in this district. If I can get in touch with the managing director of H.B. Heritage, I can negotiate a master lease with an option to purchase. We can move into Willow Creek by the end of the month!”
My heart beat with a slow, ironic rhythm from across the room where I sat knitting a wool blanket for Maya.
“H.B. Heritage?” Renee asked, tapping her chin. “Where have I heard that name before? It sounds familiar.”
“It’s probably an East Coast hedge fund,” Daniel dismissed, already dialing a number on his phone. “Big money. The kind of people who don't care about a few thousand dollars here or there as long as the tenant has good credit. I'm going to track down the registered agent tomorrow morning. We are getting that house, Renee. I can feel it!”
He walked past me toward his home office, not even glancing down. To him, I was already gone—an empty space waiting to be cleared for yoga mats and essential oil diffusers.
“Daniel,” I called out gently.
He paused at the threshold, an annoyed furrow between his brows. “What is it, Mom? I’m right in the middle of securing our future.”
“I’ve hired movers for tomorrow morning,” I said evenly. “They’ll be here at eight sharp. I’ll be out of your hair before noon.”
May you like
Daniel looked momentarily startled, perhaps a faint flicker of childhood conscience brushing against his callous exterior. “Tomorrow? Wow. Uh... you sure you don’t need help? Where are you going?”
“You asked when I was leaving,” I replied with a warm, steady smile. “I wouldn't dream of making your family wait another day.”
