Mark didn’t even ask how I was doing.
He walked into the house, looked around for maybe five seconds, and said, “We should probably talk about selling the place.”
I just stared at him.
His father had been dead for six months. The coffee mug Gary used every single morning was still sitting near the sink because I still couldn’t bring myself to move it.
And Mark was already talking about realtors.
When I told him I needed time, he laughed a little and said, “Linda, this house was never really yours.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Then he pulled out a stack of papers from his bag and pushed them toward me.
The second I saw Gary’s signature at the bottom, my hands started shaking.
