Then another.
Then another.
Soon tires crunched across my wet gravel.
Through the curtain, I watched Genevieve emerge first, her expensive cream coat spotless and her mouth tight. Benjamin followed, pale and staring at his phone.
The third passenger made me set down my cup.
My granddaughter Clara climbed from the back seat.
She was seven, small for her age, with Benjamin’s dark hair and my mother’s solemn eyes. She wore a bright yellow raincoat with one cuff twisted and held the stuffed rabbit I had sewn after Thomas died. One ear had been repaired twice, and its button eyes did not match.
Genevieve never checked whether Clara followed.
She crossed the walkway like a hotel guest whose room had failed inspection.
Benjamin paused at the gate, frantically swiping his phone as if someone might answer and undo my decision. He had always believed trouble was temporary if someone else had enough money to fix it.
Genevieve knocked three sharp times, rang the bell, then knocked again.
I let her wait.
Not to be cruel.
