I left before sunrise, while the house was still dark and the Christmas lights glowed over the frozen lawn. On the kitchen counter, beside my mother’s coffee mug, I placed a cream envelope, my house key, and the remote for the gate. Then I drove to a hotel downtown, turned off my phone, and slept for eleven hours straight for the first time in years.
When I finally turned it back on, there were sixty-two messages. The first few were angry. The rest were frantic. Every credit card I had given them had been canceled overnight. The monthly allowances were stopped. Then my mother’s last text arrived, all in capitals. A REAL ESTATE AGENT IS PUTTING A SIGN IN THE FRONT YARD. WHAT DID YOU DO?
