“Do you want me to handle this,” he asked, “or do you want to handle it?”
“I’m handling it,” I said. “But I want you beside me.” The final call went to Gloria Vance, a real estate attorney who knew exactly which papers mattered.
Within an hour, she had prepared a clean envelope. Before anyone went upstairs, I made one condition clear.
Aaron’s children would not be frightened. They had not planned this. They would be given time to leave safely.
Gloria studied me over her glasses. “You’re still protecting the children.”
“Somebody has to.” At sunset, four of us entered the elevator: Gloria with the envelope, Curtis with a folder, the person my family did not expect beside me, and me.
The floor numbers climbed. Six. Seven. Eight. When the doors opened on nine, I asked the others to wait around the corner.
I knocked alone. Aaron opened the door and smirked. “You really came back?”
“I need one answer,” I said. “Do you honestly believe this apartment belongs to you now?”
He laughed loudly enough for two neighbors to open their doors. “You weren’t using it.
We needed it. You’ll get over it.” My mother stepped into the hallway and touched my arm.
“Be reasonable, Ramona. Let your brother have something for once.” I looked at them for a long moment.
Then I said, “Give me one hour. After that, we settle this permanently.”
Aaron smiled and closed my door in my face. Exactly sixty minutes later, I returned.
This time, I was not alone. I pressed the doorbell. My mother opened the door with a patient smile, prepared to accept my surrender.
Then she looked past me. Her face drained of color. Her hand flew to her mouth.
This story is shared for inspirational purposes. The names of the characters have been changed.
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