The real estate agents came and went, taking photographs of the grand mansion that would soon belong to someone else.

We packed our personal belongings into simple cardboard boxes, sorting through years of accumulated things.

We found old drawings Martina had made when she was a child, and scrapbooks of our family vacations before my mother got sick.

We laughed, we cried, and we talked about the future without any fear of who was listening.

Patricia’s trial was scheduled for the autumn, but my father’s lawyers assured us that with the evidence we had gathered, she would not be coming back.

She was gone, a dark chapter in our lives that was finally closed.

On our last night in the mansion, the house was completely empty of furniture.

The high rooms echoed with the sound of our footsteps as we walked through them one last time.

We gathered in the foyer, our bags packed and waiting by the front door.

My father looked up at the grand staircase, his expression peaceful.

He reached out and took my hand, and then Martina’s hand.