“Three weeks is more than enough time to take that apartment away from Elara,” my father stated with a tone so clinical it made my skin crawl.
“She will likely cry for a few days because she is sensitive, but eventually, the phase will pass and she will move on with her life,” he added dismissively.
I was standing just outside my mother’s pristine white kitchen, clutching a dusty box of old family photographs, when those words hit me like a physical blow.
I did not scream out in anger, nor did I drop the heavy box I was carrying, and for a several long seconds, I actually forgot how to breathe.
My mother responded with a level of calmness that chilled my blood even more than my father’s cold calculation.
“We should wait until she officially leaves for her business trip to London next week,” she suggested while sipping her tea.
“Once she is gone, we will bring in a locksmith to change the bolts, pack up her belongings, and list the property for sale immediately,” she continued.
“Chloe desperately needs that money right now to settle her mounting debts and start fresh,” my mother concluded as if she were discussing a simple chores list.
I felt a sharp pang in my chest because they were talking about my home, the only place where I had ever felt truly safe.
That apartment in Riverside Park was a gift from my grandfather, Arthur, who had deeded it to me before he passed away last year.
It was the only possession in my entire life that had been given to me unconditionally, accompanied by the words, “This is yours, Elara.”
My father sighed deeply, his voice echoing through the hallway as if they were merely deciding whether to donate an old, dusty piece of furniture.
“The real estate market is currently very strong, so if we move quickly, we can close the deal before the economy shifts,” he noted.
“Elara has always been a reasonable girl, and in the end, she will surely understand that Chloe’s situation is much more urgent than her own,” he said.
