I told myself that as long as Terrence was under that roof, I could endure any insult or any heavy chore she threw my way. I was devastatingly wrong about the protection his presence provided, because the very moment his heart stopped, she claimed every square inch of the property as her exclusive domain.
The house, the antique furniture, the family silver, and even the clothes in the closets were suddenly hers by right of a cold, calculated conquest. Even the air in the hallways felt like it belonged to her now, leaving no room for a grieving mother to catch her breath.
She handed me two worn, battered suitcases that looked pathetic against the marble floors and told me I was being sent to a collapsing hunting cabin hidden deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The property was a forgotten relic with no electricity, no running water, and no neighbors for miles in any direction.
“I am taking my son’s photograph from the mantel, Brigitte,” I said, my voice cracking as I reached for the silver frame.
She stepped in front of me with the speed of a predator, blocking my path as if I were a common thief trying to make off with the crown jewels.