When my sister Ruth finally found me, I was sitting on a twin bed in an upstairs room, my left eye still bruised. Marcus filled the doorway, blocking the exit. Ruth looked at my face and asked the question I’d choked on for months: “Why isn’t she living in the house she bought with Otis?” Marcus didn’t hesitate. He smiled and said, “That house is my wife’s now. And if my mother keeps talking, I’ll hit her again and she’ll wear that color for weeks.”

Something inside me screamed no. It screamed that this was wrong, that Otis would never have wanted it, that I was being led into a trap. But Marcus was my son—my only son—and I was tired. Tired and lonely and scared. I missed Otis every second of every day. And when your child looks at you with pleading eyes and tells you he only wants to take care of you, it becomes hard to hold the line.

Two weeks later, I went with them to an office where Vanessa had arranged everything. My hands trembled around the pen. Marcus squeezed my shoulder as if his touch could steady me.

“It’s for the best, Mama,” he murmured. “You’ll see.”

A month later, Marcus arrived at my house holding empty boxes. Vanessa stood behind him with a smile that finally showed its true shape.

“Mama,” Marcus said, “it’s time for you to move.”

“Move where?” The words didn’t even make sense. They didn’t fit inside my mind.

“To a place more appropriate for you,” he said smoothly. “Smaller. Easier to maintain.”

Vanessa was already packing. She put my photographs into boxes, the plates Otis gave me for our anniversary, the curtains I sewed with my own hands. My voice came out as a whisper, thin and shaking.

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