Chapter 1 - The Suitcase Search
“Let’s see if you aren’t stealing something from my house this time.”
Florence said it loudly enough for Christopher to hear from the hallway.
She grabbed Sabrina’s suitcase from the bed, flipped it open, and began pulling everything out one piece at a time.
Coffee.
Pastries.
Two dresses.
A toiletry bag.
A cream blouse Sabrina had bought for her mother.
Florence unfolded the blouse and held it toward the window as if searching for a hidden price tag.
“I paid for that,” Sabrina said.
Florence smirked.
“With whose money?”
“My paycheck.”
“As long as you live under my roof, your paycheck keeps this family running.”
Sabrina felt something inside her finally stop bending.
For two years, she had paid nearly every bill in that Minneapolis house.
Utilities.
Groceries.
Repairs.
Florence’s medication.
Christopher’s failed repair-shop debts.
A new washing machine.
Part of the roof replacement.
And yet she was searched every time she left to see her parents.
Sabrina reached forward and pulled the blouse from Florence’s hands.
“Don’t touch my things again.”
Florence’s face changed.
Christopher entered immediately.
“What did you say to my mother?”
“I told her to stop treating me like a thief.”
Christopher stepped closer.
“You live in her house.”
“I pay more toward this house than either of you.”
That sentence landed differently.
Christopher’s anger flickered into something that looked almost like panic.
Then he slapped her.
Once.
Sabrina’s head turned.
Before she could fully register the pain, he struck her again.
“Never disrespect my mother.”
Silence.
Florence smiled.
“There. Maybe now she understands.”
Sabrina slowly touched her burning cheek.
She didn’t scream.
Didn’t threaten.
Didn’t cry.
She simply repacked every item Florence had thrown across the bed.
Christopher watched her.
“Come back tomorrow morning.”
Sabrina zipped the suitcase.
“You’ll apologize.”
She lifted the handle.
Florence crossed her arms.
“And don’t bring anything back from your parents’ place that belongs here.”
Sabrina looked at her.
Then at Christopher.
Something about his face bothered her.
He wasn’t triumphant.
He looked afraid.
But she didn’t understand why.
Not yet.
Sabrina left.
Four hours later, she sat at her parents’ kitchen table while her mother quietly cried over the bruising on her cheek.
Her father, Robert, listened without interrupting.
Then Sabrina mentioned the money.
The roof.
The appliance.
The utility bills.
The repair-shop debt.
The renovation.
Robert’s face changed.
“How much have you put into Florence’s house?”
Sabrina frowned.
“Maybe eighty thousand over two years.”
Robert stood so quickly his chair scraped backward.
“What?”
“Dad?”
He disappeared into the hallway.
When he returned, he was carrying an old wooden box Sabrina remembered from childhood.
He placed it on the table.
His hands were shaking.
“Before you tell me anything else…”
He opened the lid.
Inside lay an old property deed.
Robert looked directly at Sabrina.
“That house was never Florence’s.”
Sabrina stopped breathing.
“What?”
Robert swallowed.
“Your husband knows exactly who really owns it.”
Before Sabrina could ask another question, someone began pounding on the front door.
Three brutal knocks.
Robert went pale.
“Don’t open it.”
Sabrina stared at him.
“Why?”
May you like
Robert whispered:
“Because if they’re already here, then Florence knows I kept the deed.”
