The house smelled like rosemary, garlic, and red wine reduction.
I’d been cooking since noon—pot roast, six hours low and slow, the kind of meal that tells your family you’re still here, still trying.
Derek used to beg for it when he was eight.
Now he ate it like it was fuel, wiped gravy from his chin, looked me in the eye… and took my home away in one sentence.
“We’re selling your house to pay for your care.”
Not a question.
Not a conversation.
An eviction notice delivered over Sunday dinner.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even argue.
I just nodded… and made one phone call.
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