“I don’t remember.”
He looked down at his coffee.
“I see.”
I didn’t understand.
I didn’t know that Richard remembered.
He remembered everything.
Then my landlord called again.
“You need to move out.”
I begged him.
“I have a job now.”
“You’re still behind.”
“I just need more time.”
“You’ve had more time.”
“My husband died.”
There was silence.
Then he said,
“I understand, Nora. But I have bills too.”
When the call ended, I stood in the pantry with my phone pressed against my chest.
I didn’t cry.
I’d already cried enough.
I just stood there.
Then I heard a floorboard creak behind me.
I turned.
Nobody was there.
I opened the pantry door.
The hallway was empty.
I told myself it was nothing.
But somewhere in the house, someone had heard that conversation.
Someone who would remember it.
Someone who had already begun making plans.
A few weeks later, the estate looked different.