“Probably some dramatic goodbye letter,” she said. “I’m not giving her the satisfaction.”
By Monday afternoon, Gerald had called me four times—each time voicemail. He left one message.
“Tula, this is childish. Call me back.”
By Wednesday, silence from my end. Not a single text, email, or returned call.
Gerald told Aunt Patricia I was going through a phase. He told his college friend I was being emotional about the birthday thing. He told Roy.
Actually, he didn’t tell Roy anything. They still weren’t speaking.
And the envelope sat on the kitchen counter untouched.
A time bomb.
No one bothered to open.
Day five: the electric company sent an automated notice—past due.
Gerald called their customer service line, gave his name, asked for the account details.
“I’m sorry, sir. The account is registered to Tula Meadows.”
He blinked.
“That’s my daughter. I live at this address.”
“We can only discuss account details with the registered holder.”
He hung up and stared at the phone.
Day seven: a letter from the bank. Not a bill—a formal notice.
Mortgage payment overdue.
He tore open the envelope standing at the mailbox. The name on the mortgage: Tula E. Meadows.
Gerald read it twice. Then he carried it inside and dropped it on the kitchen table in front of Linda.
“What the hell is this?”
Linda picked it up. Her eyes scanned the page. Her mouth opened. Closed.
“That’s impossible. This is our house.”
“That’s what I said.”
Gerald went to the filing cabinet in the hallway closet, the one he hadn’t opened in years. He pulled folders—tax returns, old pay stubs, insurance papers. He searched for a deed, a title, anything with his name on it.
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