Chapter 4
The bedroom was only the beginning.
I read Lydia’s message twice.
“What did you promise her?” I asked Grant.
“This is not the time.”
“That means there was a promise.”
Lydia folded her arms over my robe. “Grant told me I wouldn’t have to start over like a stranger after everything I did for him.”
“What does that have to do with my bedroom?”
Neither of them answered.
A message appeared in the family chat.
Is the date correct? You moved Claire’s things before the funeral?
Grant held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
“No.”
“Delete the picture. This is private.”
“It stopped being private when Lydia told your family I gave her our bedroom.”
“It was only a moving list,” Lydia said. “Grant was trying to make things easier.”
“For whom?”
Another cousin replied.
Grant, did Claire agree to any of this?
I waited for my husband to answer.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Everyone is upset. Nothing I say right now is going to help.”
“You could try the truth.”
His eyes moved toward Lydia again.
That was his answer.
He would allow his family to call me unstable. He would allow Lydia to rewrite what had happened.
What he would not do was ask his sister to face one uncomfortable fact.
I closed the group chat and wrapped my hand around the suitcase handle.
“Claire,” he said, “don’t turn this into a war.”
“I gave you a chance to tell the truth.”
I wheeled the suitcase toward the stairs. Behind me, Lydia said, “You didn’t have to embarrass him.”
Grant did not correct her.
At the front door, I paused long enough to hear whether he would follow.
He stayed in the hallway.
“Take a few days to calm down,” he called. “Then we can talk.”
I opened the door.
He had made his choice in front of his family.
Now I was making mine.
The apartment I rented was two blocks behind the library.
It had one bedroom, a narrow dining table, and a lamp that needed to be switched on twice before it worked.
The ten-night deposit had already gone through.
I stood in the doorway and checked my balance, knowing the cost would make the next few weeks tighter.
Still, when I set the key in my palm, my chest loosened for the first time in days. No one’s needs were crowding out my own.
The next morning, I went to work as usual.
Rachel stopped me outside the archives room.
She noticed the shadows beneath my eyes and the canvas bag holding my spare clothes, but she didn’t ask what had happened.
She handed me a coffee instead and told me that three more families had added donations to the local-history exhibit. The display cases still needed to be finalized that afternoon.
“If you can’t handle the calls, I can take them,” she said.
“I can handle them.” I paused. “Just don’t explain anything for me today.”
She nodded.
At lunchtime, the law office called to confirm my appointment for the following afternoon.
The receptionist advised me to keep records of where I was staying, save all messages, and avoid making decisions in anger that could create more trouble later.
I agreed, then created a separate folder for every text Grant had sent since I left.
There were seven.
The first three asked where I was staying. The fourth said Lydia had cried all night. The fifth told me not to turn this into a legal matter. The last two softened. He said he loved me. He said he was only trying to help his sister.
I didn’t read the final message until just before I left work.
I told Lydia and the family that you needed space. Please don’t make it sound like I threw you out over her.
I stared at the screen.
Grant wasn’t afraid of losing me.
He was afraid that someone might finally understand why I had left.