Then she started moving my furniture.
In my house.
While I stood there watching.
When she finished, the coffee table practically blocked the hallway.
She stepped back proudly.
“There.”
Then she glanced through the window.
“Oh, and those roses need pruning.”
I stared at her.
My roses had taken me three years to grow.
They had literally won a local gardening ribbon in Bellmere.
Apparently, according to Marlene, they looked “wild.”
THEN HER DAUGHTERS ARRIVED
Sarah and Kate came carrying enormous designer handbags.
Nothing else.
No chips.
No soda.
No dessert.
No ice.
Nothing.
Behind them came six children under ten.
Within fifteen minutes, Willowcrest Farm looked like a daycare center after a tornado.
Juice boxes on counters.
Snack wrappers beneath chairs.
Shoes in hallways.
Someone’s sticky handprint on my sliding door.
Eight-year-old Tyler walked across my white rug while holding a melting popsicle.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Down the hall.”
