Now, standing in my tiny kitchen at nearly midnight, she looked like someone who had lost everything.
I handed her a mug of hot tea.
“Tell me what happened.”
Sarah stared into the cup.
“Jenna sold my house.”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry. She did what?”
“She sold my house, Mark.”
“Your house? The one you’ve lived in for nineteen years?”
She nodded.
“The one my husband and I bought together. The one I paid off after he died. The one where I raised my daughter.”
I pulled out the chair opposite her.
“Sarah, how is that even possible?”
“She had access to some of my financial documents. I gave her limited authority to help me manage paperwork when I was recovering from surgery last year. Apparently, that was a mistake.”
“Apparently?”
She looked at me.
“I’m trying to be polite.”
“Right. Sorry. Would you prefer the less polite version?”
