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.”

“But this is my house.”

“Not anymore, Mama,” Marcus said. “Now it’s ours. The paper you put your name on says so. I checked with the lawyer. Everything’s in order.”

Then Vanessa stepped closer, eyes bright with triumph.

“Legally,” she said, almost savoring the word, “this property belongs to me.”

The room tilted. The floor seemed to slide out from under my feet. My lungs forgot how to work, and I felt like I was drowning in air.

“You told me it was temporary,” I said. “You told me I would still live here.”

Marcus shrugged, like a man talking about the weather, like he hadn’t just destroyed my life.

“Things changed. Vanessa is pregnant. We need the space. You don’t need three bedrooms. We already found a room for you. It’s comfortable. Enough for one person. A room. Four hundred dollars a month. I’ll cover the first three months. After that, you’ll manage with your social security.”

My check was $600 a month—$600 Otis and I earned after a lifetime of work. If I paid $400 in rent, that left $200 for food, medicine, transportation, everything.

“Marcus,” I begged, “please don’t do this to me.”

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