Dolores visited me once in December, carrying lemon bars. She admitted she had signed the affidavit because Brandon cried and told her we had agreed to the arrangement. She apologized for treating me like household staff that evening. I accepted her apology but made it clear I wanted nothing more than the lemon bars. The house sold in March, and I paid off the entire mortgage with one wire transfer. I left with a box, a plant, and a coffee mug. In June, I bought a small brick house beside a lake in St. Paul and put the deed in my name alone.

I kept my job because I genuinely loved finding the numbers that didn’t add up. I also devoted a third of Vernon’s trust to a scholarship fund in his name, helping first-generation university students. Brandon sent me a letter in September. I read it once and put it away. I didn’t hate him; I simply no longer wanted to give him my attention. One evening, I set ordinary chipped plates on my own table for four friends. Nobody ordered me around or told me to be careful. After dinner, I washed the dishes slowly, listening to laughter through the screen door. For six years, I had carried someone else’s weight and called it love. Now I was finally living a life that belonged entirely to me.