Dus ik vertrok. Ik ben niet zomaar weer naar de universiteit gegaan. Ik ben overgeplaatst. Ik kreeg een beurs voor een school in Illinois. Ik begroef mezelf in boeken, ging rechten studeren en bouwde een leven op vanuit het niets, duizenden kilometers verderop. Ik verliet het uitgestrekte platteland van New York voor het beton en staal van Chicago.
Grandpa Arthur and I still talked, though. Every Sunday, at 10 AM. It was our ritual. He’d sound weaker each month, but he’d always ask about my classes, my tiny apartment, my “big city life.”
Then, six months ago, the calls just… stopped. I’d call his private line, and it would ring and ring. I called my mother’s house, and Victor would answer.
“He’s sleeping,” he’d say, his voice smooth as oil. “He’s… not well, Chloe. The doctors say he shouldn’t be agitated.”
“Just tell him I love him,” I’d beg.
“Of course,” he’d say, and hang up.
I didn’t know he had died until I got the funeral invitation in the mail. Not a call. Not a letter. Just a thick, cream-colored card with black ink and a date. The grief was so profound, so mixed with rage, I could barely stand.
So there I was, 48 hours later, standing in front of the old house. The wrap-around porch was the same. The white fence Grandpa Arthur had built with his own hands still stood. But the flower beds he and I had planted—all the roses and hydrangeas—were gone. In their place was a three-tiered marble fountain with a gaudy, cherubic statue. It was hideous. It was Victor.
I should have turned around. I should have gone to the church, paid my respects, and flown back to my life. But revenge has a strange way of whispering… Not yet.
I lifted my hand and knocked.
The Welcome Home
When the door swung open, I froze. My mother, Helen, looked… older. So much older. Her hair was silver at the roots, her skin thin, but her eyes—those guilty, tired, haunted eyes—were the same.
“Chloe?” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.
Behind her, a shadow detached itself from the dim hallway. Victor. He was taller than I remembered, immaculate in a black tailored suit, his face set in a mask of controlled rage.
“Mom,” I whispered.
Before she could speak, Victor stepped forward, pushing her behind him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he barked. His voice, once so smooth, was sharp and ugly.
“I… I came for Grandpa’s funeral,” I stammered, feeling 19 again.
“This isn’t your house anymore,” he snapped. “You are not welcome here.”
“Victor, please,” my mother whimpered.
“I’m still his family. This is still his house,” I said, my voice hardening. “I have a right to be here.”
“You have no rights,” Victor said, stepping onto the porch. He was so close I could smell his expensive, acrid cologne. “You abandoned this family.”
“I’m here for him,” I said, pointing past him. “Not for you.”
“He’s gone. And you’re next.”
His hand balled into a fist. Before I could even process the words, his knuckles met my cheek.
The shock was harder than the pain. It was a blinding, bright-white explosion behind my eyes. I stumbled back, my feet catching on the top step, and I tumbled down, my suitcase rolling off the path and into the muddy, ruined flowerbed.
“VICTOR, STOP!” my mother screamed, but she was just a voice behind a closed door. He had already shut her inside.
He loomed over me from the porch. “I told you years ago,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous. “You’re nothing but trouble. You left this family, remember? You’re nothing.” He straightened his tie. “Now leave. Don’t come to the funeral. Don’t come back. Ever.”
