Chapter 4 - BREAKFAST WITH THE PEOPLE WHO STOLE FROM US
When we returned home, Ethan was cooking eggs.
He whistled while standing at my stove as though the previous night had been a minor disagreement.
Ashley sat at the island reviewing cabinet samples.
“How did the lawyer meeting go?” Ethan asked.
Linda stopped walking.
“How did you know where we were?”
“Where else would you go?”
He placed a plate in front of me.
“You should eat before taking your medication.”
The false concern almost impressed me.
“Thank you.”
I sat down.
Linda looked at me as though I had lost my mind.
“Mom?” Ethan said. “I made yours without salt.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to stop being dramatic.”
My hand tightened beneath the table.
Rachel had warned us not to reveal what we knew. The lender’s fraud department and the county investigator needed time to preserve records.
So I ate breakfast with the son who had stolen my identity.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said.
Ethan looked pleased.
“Good.”
“Maybe the house is too much.”
Linda lowered her eyes so Ethan would not see her reaction.
Ashley leaned forward.
“Exactly. You could have a beautiful condo with staff and no yard work.”
“Where?”
She immediately opened a listing on her tablet.
They had prepared for my surrender.
The apartment was in a retirement complex twenty miles away. It had one bedroom.
“Where would Linda keep her sewing room?”
Ashley smiled.
“She won’t need all that clutter.”
Linda had sewn wedding dresses, school costumes, quilts, and baby clothes in that room for more than thirty years.
Ashley reduced half her life to clutter without hesitation.
“And my workshop?” I asked.
“You’re retiring,” Ethan said.
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Dad, you have to let go eventually.”
I looked around the kitchen.
I had laid every piece of flooring myself. Linda had painted the cabinets twice. Our daughter, Emily, who died at nineteen in a car accident, had carved her initials beneath the breakfast bench when she was eight.
Ethan knew that.
He had simply decided memory had less value than resale.
“What happens to the furniture?” I asked.
“Estate sale,” Ashley replied.
Linda finally spoke.
“We are not dead.”
Ashley’s expression barely changed.
“Of course not.”
“Then stop planning our estate sale.”
Ethan set down his fork.
“Mom, if you keep resisting, this becomes unpleasant.”
“You locked me outside.”
“I needed you to understand that the decision was made.”
“By whom?”
“By the person who owns the house.”
I placed my napkin beside the plate.
“When does Malcolm expect to close?”
Ethan froze.
Ashley’s eyes moved toward him.
“Who?”
“My boss.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve never been good at lying slowly, Ethan. You rush toward the part where you think you win.”
He stood.
“Did Rachel tell you something?”
“Rachel told me to consider my options.”
That was true.
She had not told me which option to choose.
Ethan studied my face.
“Malcolm is willing to pay above market value.”
“For four acres that may soon be rezoned?”
He stopped pretending.
“This land is wasted on two people.”
Linda rose from the table.
“Your sister is buried beneath the oak tree near the back fence.”
The county had allowed us to place a memorial stone there after Emily died. Her ashes were buried beneath it.
Ethan’s voice softened, but not with compassion.
“That can be moved.”
Linda slapped him.
The sound cracked across the kitchen.
Everyone froze.
My wife had never struck either of our children.
She stared at her own hand in shock.
Ethan touched his cheek.
For a moment, he looked like the little boy who once cried when he broke a neighbor’s window.
Then rage replaced him.
“You just assaulted the owner of this house.”
“No,” I said, standing between them. “She slapped a thief.”
Ashley grabbed her phone.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Go ahead.”
She hesitated.
The last thing they wanted was another official record.
Ethan pointed toward the stairs.
“You two should pack.”
My phone rang.
It was Malcolm Price.
“Tom,” he said warmly, “I heard there’s some confusion about your property.”
I looked at Ethan.
“No confusion.”
“Maybe we should meet privately.”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“My office?”
“No. My house.”
Ethan’s expression changed.
I continued.
“Bring every document connected to the purchase.”
Malcolm became quiet.
“That may not be necessary.”
“It is if you still want this land.”
I ended the call.
Ethan stared at me.
May you like
“What are you doing?”
“Giving everyone one final chance to tell the truth.”
