For a moment, I thought she would refuse.
I would not have blamed her.
Then she said, “Twelve months. You pay utilities for the space. You do not enter the house unless invited. You do not remove anything that belonged to her without asking me.”
I nodded quickly.
“Yes. Of course.”
Her voice shook.
“And if I ever find out you sold one thing from that box, I will make sure everyone knows exactly what you were.”
I held the box tighter.
“I would sleep in the street before I sold it.”
She looked at me then.
Maybe she believed me.
Maybe she did not.
But she nodded once.
The next twelve months were the hardest of my life.
Not because I lost Evelyn’s money.
Because I had to live without her kindness while trying to prove it had not been wasted.
Caroline took the house.
She moved through it slowly, sorting memories, grieving in rooms where I had once imagined ownership. I stayed away unless she allowed me into the garage.
At first, she watched me like a guard.
I arrived every morning at seven. Left by six. Paid the utility share. Took custom orders. Built shelves, tables, benches, cabinets. I worked until my hands cracked and my back ached. At night, I rented a small room above an auto shop and ate cheap soup from cans.
It felt familiar.
But different.
