The week since I left my daughter’s house had been a whirlwind of emotions. I found myself in a small but cozy apartment on the other side of town. It was sparsely furnished—a single bed, a table, and a couple of chairs—but it was mine. My own space. A place where I was not subjected to someone else’s whims or demands.
At first, my phone was silent, and I welcomed the peace. The silence allowed me to reflect on how things had gone so wrong. Tiffany and I had always been close. When Martha passed, it seemed we grew even closer, bound by shared grief. But Harry had changed things. It was hard to pinpoint when exactly the shift occurred, but slowly, the man had driven a wedge between us, with Tiffany unknowingly aiding him.
