Wednesday at 10:00 AM, Derek Arrived to “Close the Deal”
Two days later, right on schedule, Derek’s BMW rolled into my driveway.
A realtor followed behind him.
Clipboard. Polite smile. The posture of someone about to make a commission.
I didn’t open the door immediately.
I watched from the front window.
Derek checked his watch like he was managing a meeting.
Then he walked up and knocked—hard, confident, entitled.
I opened the door just enough to make eye contact.
“Good morning, Claire,” he said, overly cheerful. “We’re here for the paperwork.”
I nodded once.
And stepped aside.
Derek moved forward like he owned the air in my hallway.
Then he stopped.
Because my living room wasn’t empty.
Three people stood there—calm, well-dressed, organized.
Not angry. Not chaotic.
Professional.
And behind them, movers were carefully carrying boxes, wrapping furniture, labeling items.
Not my items.
Their items.
Derek’s smile faltered.
He looked at me like I’d changed the rules mid-game.
Then he looked at them.
I watched it hit him in slow motion:
These weren’t my “friends.”
These weren’t “neighbors.”
These were the foster kids he used to call “those kids.”
And they were now extremely successful adults with resources Derek didn’t have.
One of them stepped forward and extended a hand—calm, controlled, devastating.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m here on Claire’s request. We’ll be handling her transition.”
Derek blinked.
“Transition?” he repeated.
Another voice followed—sharp in its politeness.
“Yes. To our place. She’ll be living with us. And her attorney will be handling her estate planning.”
The realtor’s eyes flicked between Derek and me.
Confusion turned into concern.
This wasn’t a sale.
This was a boundary.
And Derek suddenly realized he had shown up to a meeting where he wasn’t invited.
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