Chapter 2 - The Silence of the Mailbox
Four days passed without a single word spoken about the washing machine.
To Gavin and Alyssa, my silence was submission. To me, it was a countdown.
Every morning, Alyssa would take her forty-five-minute shower, leaving the bathroom filled with thick, luxurious steam. Every evening, Gavin would lower the central air conditioning to a frigid sixty-five degrees because he "couldn't relax in a stuffy house."
They lived like royalty in a castle they didn't own, blissfully unaware that the moat was drying up.
I kept to my small back room. I read my books. I hand-washed my smaller items in the blue tub and hung them on the patio, out of sight.
On Thursday afternoon, I heard the heavy clatter of the mail slot.
Usually, Gavin collected the mail when he got home, tossing my catalogs onto the kitchen counter while taking the rest into the master bedroom. But today, I walked out to the foyer.
Among the glossy grocery flyers was a thick, yellow envelope addressed to Gavin. Not a bill. A collection notice.
I didn't open it. I didn't need to. The bright red banner across the front read: FINAL NOTICE: DELINQUENT ACCOUNT.
I placed it squarely on the glass entryway table, right where he would drop his keys.
When Gavin arrived at six o'clock, his shoulders were slumped. The confident swagger he usually carried into the house was gone. He dropped his keys, and I watched from the hallway shadows as his eyes fell on the yellow envelope.
He froze.
He didn't open it. He frantically shoved it into his leather briefcase, looking around to see if Alyssa was watching.
"Mom?" he called out, his voice carrying a strange, nervous edge.
I stepped out of the shadows. "Yes, Gavin?"
He cleared his throat, adjusting his expensive silk tie. "Alyssa is having her regional director over for dinner tomorrow night. It’s a big deal. Her promotion depends on it."
"I see."
"We’re having a private chef come in," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It would be best if you stayed in your room. We can’t have you wandering around in your housecoat, making things awkward. I’ll bring you a plate after they leave."
He was hiding something massive, something that made him sweat in our freezing house, yet he still felt entitled to banish me to the shadows.
"I'll be out of your way," I said quietly.
"Good," he muttered. Then, he reached into his pocket. "By the way, I need you to sign this. It's just a standard tax release form. My accountant says it’s routine since I’m registered at this address."
May you like
He handed me a folded document.
I looked down. At the very top, barely visible where he had folded the page, were the words: Deed Transfer of Primary Residence.
