---
By the time Richard and his broken son made it home the next day, the first thing they noticed was the unusual commotion at the brownstone.
As they approached the entrance, they saw — strangers. A half-dozen strangers moving through their front door.
Richard erupted like a wounded animal. "Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"
No one answered.
His things — and Ethan's — were being carried out onto the sidewalk. Methodically. No confrontation, just steady cold eviction.
Ethan lunged at one of the movers and grabbed his arm. "What the hell is going on? This is my house!"
The mover shook him off, irritated. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
The man turned around — the buyer, clearly. Middle-aged, in an expensive overcoat.
Richard clutched at his chest. He was going to pass out. "This is my home. I've lived here forty years. And you're asking me what I'm doing here?"
The man gave him a flat look. He took a folded document out of his coat pocket and held it up.
"I don't know how long you've lived here. I know that the deed is in my name. The previous owner told me to dispose of the contents at my discretion."
"I've been generous. I waited until you got back before starting to move the furniture out. Anything of yours that's still inside — better come claim it."
He shrugged and walked back in.
Richard stared at the deed in the man's hand until he could focus on the name.
A stranger's name.
He'd lived in that house so long he'd forgotten — in some deep part of his mind — that the house had never actually been his.
It was Josephine's. It had always been Josephine's.
He went down onto the front steps.
Ethan stood there, staring. Two days ago he'd had a wife and a home. Now he had neither.
"Josephine's lost her mind. She actually sold it. Dad, call her. Get it back before she spends the money."
Richard looked at his son and felt, for a second, like he was looking at a stranger.
Once upon a time, Ethan had been so attached to Josephine that Richard had feared he'd never bond with Vivienne.
Now he was a man who refused to even call her Mom.
Richard took out his phone. Told himself: she won't have actually left. She can't. Forty years. She doesn't know how to survive out there.
Even if she has the money, she won't make it. The world changes fast. She needs me.
His chest loosened.
He called her. Again. Again.
Every call went to voicemail.
Ethan snapped. He started typing a barrage of texts.
Mom! Are you out of your mind? At your age, what the hell are you trying to prove?
Why did you sell the house? Do you know how long I've lived here? Where are Dad and I supposed to go?
How can you be this selfish?
Richard had been dialing for half an hour. Ethan's texts got a response in ninety seconds.
It was short. It was calm.
The house came to me through the Harrington Family Trust. I had every right to sell it.
Your father and I are divorced. I have nothing to do with either of you. Do not contact me again.
Ethan's teeth ground. "The woman who was quiet for forty years decides to bite now?"
He typed in a rage.
You were barely more than the housekeeper in that house. Dad supported you your entire adult life. That house is community property whether you like it or not.
He hit send.
It bounced.
He'd been blocked.