Tommy asked me one night while we were doing dishes, “When does this end, Flora?”
I dried a plate, set it on the rack. “When the house is paid off,” I said. “Then I’ll know they’re safe. That’s enough.”
He looked at me the way he sometimes did, like he could see the cost of what I was carrying and wished he could split it in half.
“Is it, though?” he asked. “Is it enough?”
I didn’t answer.
The final payment cleared in September.
Five years. Sixty monthly transfers. $137,412 total.
The house on Maple Drive was free and clear, owned outright by Gerald and Judith Mitchell.
And two weeks later, I got the one thing I never expected: an invitation. Sort of.
I was scrolling through Facebook on a Sunday morning when I saw it. Vivien’s post, bright and public.
Planning Mom and Dad’s 40th anniversary party. Family only. October 14th. It’s going to be so special.
Two hundred likes. Forty comments. Cousins tagging each other. Neighbors asking what to bring. Uncle Ray promising three pies this time.
No message to me. No call. No text.
I sat with my phone in my hand for a long time.
Then I called Vivien.
She picked up on the fourth ring.
“Flora, hi.”
“I saw the post. When should I book my flight?”
Silence, then: “Oh. I didn’t think you’d want to come.”
“It’s their 40th anniversary, Vivien.”
“I know, but Dad said he doesn’t want any awkwardness.”
“Did Dad say that, or did you?”
Another pause. Longer this time. I could hear her recalculating.
“I’m just trying to protect everyone, Flora.”
“From what?”
“From… this turning into a thing. You haven’t been around. People will ask questions.”
“Let them ask.”
“Flora—”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up.
My hands were shaking. Not from anger. From something deeper.
Five years of silence. And my sister was still deciding whether I existed.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Tommy rolled over and said, “You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He paused. “What are you bringing?”
I thought about it for exactly one second.
“The truth.”
He didn’t ask what I meant. I think he already knew.
And somewhere in that dark room, something inside me shifted—from hoping to deciding.
You don’t get to erase me from my own family, Vivien. Not anymore.
The next morning, I called Dave Keller at First National.
“Dave, it’s Flora Mitchell.”
“Flora. Good to hear from you. Congratulations, by the way. That last payment went through clean.”
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