I spent Christmas Eve moving my suitcases into the new condo.
I bought a small tabletop pine tree, a good bottle of red wine, and a roasted chicken from the deli.
I sat on my new balcony, watching the snow fall over the river.
I was alone, but for the first time since returning from Florida, I breathed deeply.
I was in total control.
At 6:30 a.m. on Christmas morning, while the sky was still a dark, bruising purple, Martha’s team arrived at my property.
I wasn’t there, but Martha texted me the updates.
They quietly hammered the heavy wooden for-sale post into the frozen front lawn, right next to the walkway.
They attached the sleek red-and-white sign.
They didn’t knock on the door. They didn’t disturb the occupants.
They simply marked the territory.
I woke up at 8:00 in my new condo, made a cup of black coffee, and sat down at the kitchen island.
I picked up my phone.
The screen was flooded.
I had 14 missed calls from David. I had 22 missed calls from Sarah.
There were dozens of text messages growing increasingly frantic.
“Mom, what is this sign in the yard?”
“Mom, call me back right now.”
“Catherine, this isn’t funny. Tell your real estate friend to remove this immediately.”
“Mom, people are slowing down in their cars to look at the house. Stop this.”
I didn’t reply.
I took a slow sip of my coffee.
Around 9:15 a.m., my phone buzzed with a new voicemail. I tapped the screen and held it to my ear.
It was David, and he sounded completely unhinged.
“Mom, pick up the phone. Sarah went outside to pull the sign out of the ground, and Mrs. Gable next door started yelling at us about destroying property. And now Sarah is screaming at her. Mrs. Gable called the cops for a noise complaint. The police are here. Mom, they’re parked in the driveway asking for our IDs. Call me back.”
I lowered the phone.