I unlocked the door to Room 12, and my phone rang.
Robert.
“Mom, where are you?”
“Why?”
“Vanessa wants the emerald ring. Grandma’s ring. She says it’s family property and you need to return it.”
The emerald ring. My mother’s engagement ring, given to me when she died in 2001. Worth maybe eighty-five hundred dollars. I had planned to give it to Robert’s future daughter one day, if he ever had one.
“No,” I said.
Silence.
“What?”
“I said no.”
“Mom, you can’t just— Vanessa says—”
“I don’t care what Vanessa says. It’s mine.”
“Jesus, Mom, why are you being so difficult? We gave you time to pack. We’ve been more than fair.”
Fair.
The word almost made me laugh.
“Tell Vanessa if she wants the ring, she can come ask me herself.”
I hung up.
Ten minutes later, a text from an unknown number.
You have 48 hours to return family property or we pursue legal action. V.
I deleted it.
Then I lay on the narrow bed in Room 12, staring at the water-stained ceiling, and thought about Daniel’s letter.
Be free.
For the first time in forty years, I smiled.
Room 12 became my world for three weeks.
