My mother did not call me on Mother's Day.

The real estate agent excused herself to take a call on the front path.

That left the three of us standing in the hallway — me, Mom, and Chloe — with nothing between us but five years of silence and the smell of the same lavender candles Mom had always burned.

Chloe recovered first.

"You can't just buy someone's house and show up like this."

"I didn't show up like anything," I said.

"I made an offer.

The seller accepted.

That's how it works."

"The seller was a bank, Lena.

Mom didn't even know it was listed."

I looked at Mom.

"Is that true?"

Mom pressed her lips together and moved toward the kitchen.

"Come inside."

I followed her.

Chloe stayed one step behind me the whole way, like she was guarding something.

The kitchen looked the same.

Same yellow curtains.

Same wooden clock above the stove.

Same chair at the head of the table where Dad used to sit.

Mom lowered herself into the chair beside it — never his chair, always beside it — and folded her hands on the table.

"Sit down, Lena."

I sat.

Chloe remained standing by the counter.

"The house went into foreclosure," Mom said.

"Eight months ago."

I already knew that.

It was how I had found it listed.

"What I didn't know," she continued, "was that someone else had already placed a bid before yours."

I set the folder on the table.

"The agent told me my offer was the only clean cash offer on record."

"The other bid wasn't through the bank." Mom looked at her hands.

"It was private.

Someone approached me directly.

Told me they would cover the back payments, let me stay on as a tenant, and handle everything quietly."

"Who?"

Mom didn't answer immediately.

Chloe made a sound from the counter — not quite a word, more like a warning.

"Who, Mom?"

"Richard Hale."

The name landed flat.

I didn't recognize it.

"He's a property developer," Mom said.

"He's been buying up half the street.

He told me the deal was already arranged.

That I just needed to sign a letter of intent and the bank would redirect the sale."

"That's not how foreclosure sales work," I said.

"I know that now."

I opened the folder and slid one page toward her.

"This is the completed sale record.

My name.

Registered this morning.

Whatever Richard Hale told you, it wasn't legal and it wasn't binding."

Mom stared at the document.

Her finger moved to the edge of the page but didn't touch it.

"He's going to be very unhappy," she said quietly.

"That's his problem."

Chloe pushed off the counter.

"You don't know what he's like, Lena.

You've been gone five years.

You don't know what's been happening here."

"Then tell me."

Chloe looked at Mom.

Mom looked at the table.

"He's been pressuring her for months," Chloe said, her voice dropping.

"Showing up.

Calling.

He told her that if she didn't cooperate, he'd make sure the foreclosure went through in a way that left her with nothing — no time to move, no tenant rights, nothing."

I looked at my mother.

"You were being threatened and you didn't tell anyone?"

"Who was I going to tell?" Her voice came out sharper than she intended.

She pulled it back.

"Mason is in residency.

Chloe was studying for the bar.

And you—" She stopped.

"I was blocked," I said.

The clock above the stove ticked three times.

"Yes," Mom said.

"You were blocked."

Neither of us said anything else for a moment.