“It’s a nice house, Freya,” Maurice said, and leaned forward to see better out of the front windshield.
Her father had left her the house. He’d made sure in the event of his passing that when Freya reached adulthood it would go to her. It was paid for, and even though he had been married, Meghan had gotten nothing aside from what would afford her living expenses. And in the event Meghan got remarried, all income from Freya’s father’s account would cease being distributed to her stepmother. Maybe that was why Meghan hated her so much? Maybe that was why she’d seen Freya as nothing but a nuisance, a child who had taken everything from her? And, in essence, Freya had, she supposed. Her father had left everything to Freya, every single dime, every single possession, but then Meghan was still strapped with the child who was not even hers all because of a legally binding marriage.
They sat there for a moment looking at the house, neither speaking.
“You don’t have to stay here, Freya,” Maurice said softly. “We can get a couple of rooms at a motel. You don’t have to do this, Freya, not if it’s too hard.”
She shook her head. “It’s not too hard. I just haven’t been here in a long time, and it’s a little sad thinking about everything. But my dad wanted to make sure I had some place that was mine.” She looked at Maurice. A piece of blond hair fell over the top of his glasses, and she smiled. He was such a good guy, and she was sorry things hadn’t worked out for them. But she was thankful things had ended amicably and she could have him as a close friend.
He was heading home and had a girl he’d been talking with for the past year waiting for him. Freya was glad he had plans, and he was happy.
“As long as you’re sure,” he said and smiled. “But I’m here.”
She knew he was. He’d always be there for her, just as she’d be there for him.
“I’m sure.” She took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. After getting her bags out of the back seat, she stood there for a moment, looking at the house. The yard had been tended to recently, but it wasn’t because they’d paid for anyone to do it. She looked at the house next door, where an elderly couple who had been good friends with her mother and father had likely been the ones to cut it while they did their own lawn work. It warmed her heart that after all these years, they were looking out for even the smallest things.
“When is the moving van supposed to be coming?” Maurice asked and stepped up beside her.
“Tomorrow morning.” He held his bag as well, but although he’d driven her home, he wasn’t staying. He’d only be here long enough to help her get settled in, something he’d insisted on, and then he’d be on his way to his parents’ house, which was another five hours from here.
They walked up the front path, climbed the steps to the porch, and she stared at the red front door. The glass that made up an oblong shape in the center of the door was in a floral and scrollwork design. Her father had told Freya her mother had picked out the door because she had loved the design in it.
“I’ll warn you that since Meghan left, no one has been in the house. We are talking years.” She looked over at Maurice and made a face. “I’m kind of afraid to go in there.” Although she knew the house had been professionally cleaned when Meghan had moved out after she met her now third husband. As far as she knew, all her father’s furniture was still in the house. She grabbed her key, rubbed her finger over the faded and dull brass coloring, and breathed out. “Let’s do this.”
She walked up to the front door, put the key in the lock, and turned it. Grabbing the handle, she felt her heart race, her palms sweat, and this strange sensation move through her as she pushed the door open and stared inside. There was the stench of musty, boarded-in age that came to her. The curtains were drawn, but the light streaming in from outside, washing around her and into the house, made the dust particles in the air stand out in stark relief.
When she stepped inside, she felt the rush of memories wash through her, and the urge to cry—maybe because she was happy, or sad, or just because she hadn’t been here in so damn long—took over her.
“You doing okay?” Maurice asked, and she nodded without looking behind her.
“I am.” And although she felt like crying, she was happy to be here. As strange as it was, she wasn’t thinking about Meghan or her father dying, but about the memories she had before Meghan, before her father’s passing, and before she felt like she was trapped. She thought about the good times, the ones that had her smiling. Yes, this was what she’d been missing, and how insane was it that she’d stayed away this long, thinking it would feel horrible when, in fact, she felt good.