The simple, sweet girl in sundresses he’d kissed goodbye was gone. Standing before him was a polished socialite. Her hair was professionally styled, her clothes were designer, and her makeup was heavy and flawless. She stopped for a split second, her eyes scanning his worn uniform and dusty rucksack with something that looked more like annoyance than relief.
“Oh, Mike. You’re back,” she said, her tone flat. “You didn’t call to say you were coming today.” “Surprise,” Mike replied, his voice raspy. He stared at this stranger who was wearing his wife’s face.
He moved to hug her, but she instinctively stepped back, as if worried his dusty fatigues might ruin her silk blouse. “Well, come in, don’t just stand there,” she said nervously. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
She led him into a kitchen that looked like a professional set—all marble and stainless steel. Susan pulled some gourmet appetizers from a massive sub-zero fridge and put them in the microwave. Mike sat on a sleek barstool, feeling like an intruder in a museum.
He looked around, desperate for one familiar thing, but everything had been erased. “Where’s Mom?” he finally asked. The question hung in the sterile air. Susan didn’t turn around, answering too quickly, her voice a bit too smooth.
“Martha is staying with Aunt Nancy up at the lake house. You know how her blood pressure gets. I thought the fresh air and the quiet would be better for her than all the construction noise here.”
Aunt Nancy was his mother’s cousin, and she did have a place in the mountains. It sounded plausible, but something in Susan’s tone made Mike’s skin crawl. “Why didn’t she tell me? I talked to her last week.”
“Oh, you know how she is,” Susan shrugged, still not looking at him. “She didn’t want to worry you right before you came home. And the cell service up there is terrible, she can hardly ever get a signal out.”
She set a plate in front of him, her manicured nails clicking against the marble. Mike looked at her hands—hands that used to help him in the garden, now looking like they’d never done a day’s work. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was lying.
He forced down a few bites, though his stomach was in knots. Susan chatted incessantly about the renovation, the cost of the stone, and the “vision” she had for the property. She talked about brands and prices, while Mike’s mind kept looping back to one thought: *Where is my mother?*
After dinner, he told her he was exhausted and wanted to see the rest of the house. He headed upstairs, Susan trailing close behind him. Their old bedroom was now a master suite that looked like a Ritz-Carlton. Mike kept walking.
He reached his mother’s room and pushed the door open. His heart stopped. The room was gone.
It had been converted into a massive walk-in closet. Rows of designer shoes, racks of expensive dresses, and fur coats lined the walls where his mother’s bed and dresser used to be.
The room smelled of leather and cedar. “I needed the space for my wardrobe,” Susan said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Where are Mom’s things? I sent the important stuff to the lake house.”
She had an answer for everything. “The rest of it… well, it was just old junk, Mike. I cleared it out.” “Junk,” Mike repeated quietly, looking at her smug, satisfied face.
He felt a cold, dark wave of anger rising. He walked out of the room without another word, went downstairs, and walked straight out the back door.
The backyard was unrecognizable—just turf and a high-end patio with a built-in grill. But in the far corner of the lot, nearly hidden by the new stone wall, stood the old tool shed his father had built thirty years ago.
Mike headed straight for it. Susan ran out after him, her voice turning shrill and panicked.
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