At first I called Marcus. I left messages. I asked if I could visit, if we could talk. He didn’t answer. When he finally did, there was always an excuse—work, Vanessa not feeling well, the baby coming, too busy, call later. He never called later.
I tried to go back to the house—my house. I took two buses to get to the neighborhood I knew like my own skin. I got off at the usual corner and walked down the street where I’d lived for thirty years, where I knew every tree, every crack in the sidewalk, every neighbor.
But when I reached the front of the house, I stopped.
The curtains were new—mint green. The ones I sewed were gone. The garden Otis tended with such love was neglected. The roses he planted were dry, dead, forgotten.
I rang the bell. No one answered. I rang again. Silence.
Then I saw movement behind the window—a shadow. Someone was inside. Someone was watching me and still refused to open the door.
“Marcus!” I shouted. “It’s me. Your mother. Please open up.”
The curtain shifted, just a little, but the door stayed locked.
I stood there for twenty minutes, knocking, calling, pleading. The neighbors started peeking out. Mrs. Higgins—my friend for years—came onto her porch, looked at me with pity and shame, then went back inside without a word.
Finally, I gave up and walked back to the bus stop on trembling legs, my eyes hot with tears I refused to spill in public.
That night, Marcus texted me: Don’t come back to the house without warning. Vanessa got scared. It’s not good for the baby. If you need something, call me first.
I called. It rang until voicemail.
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