house.
At the upstairs window.
At the hallway beyond it where I had once stood clutching folded towels against my chest.
“I know.”
He drove away.
That evening, I locked the front door and stepped into Grandma June’s kitchen.
The house was quiet.
No fake confusion.
No whispered conversations.
No medication alarms.
No Grant telling me I was imagining things.
No documents waiting for my exhausted signature.
Only silence.
For months, I had thought Vivian was the helpless one.
Then I discovered she had been controlling everyone around her.
Grant.
