They threw me and my six children out into the rain before my husband's grave was even dry. My father-in-law pointed to the door and said, "Your husband is dead. This house belongs to the family.

Mara looked at the house: the white columns, the iron gates, the place where she had raised her children and watched her husband slowly fade away.

He could have screamed.

Instead, he picked up the muddy suitcases.

"Children," she said softly. "We're going."

“Good,” Harold replied. “And don’t come back.”

Mara walked away with her six children in tow, like a wounded army. Only when she reached the road did she turn around. Harold was already laughing. Celeste was on the phone, probably sharing her victory.

Mara allowed herself a small smile.
Not out of happiness—

but from memory.

Three months before her death, her husband Richard had placed a folder in her hands.