Her drafting table was buried under a mountain of someone else’s dirty laundry.
— I haven’t painted in a while — she murmured, her voice hollow. I didn’t reply.
I simply stared at a single, lonely nail on the wall, waiting for a canvas that wasn’t there. It had started with a funeral; Ivy filled me in as we walked the perimeter of the garden.
Robert’s cousin had passed away unexpectedly, and his family claimed they needed space to grieve—just for a week, they had promised. That was over two months ago. First, folding cots appeared in the guest room, followed by coolers stacked aggressively by the back door.
Rosalind had commandeered the master bedroom on the second night, claiming she needed to help Robert rest. Then his sisters arrived with suitcases. One of them began doing laundry, but only their own; Ivy’s clothes sat ignored in a basket by the hall.
— Robert said it wouldn’t be long — Ivy said as she pulled weeds with bare hands. But there was no talk of departure. I kept my thoughts to myself: that Robert didn’t need to discuss it because the silence was serving him and his family perfectly well.
That evening, I returned to the shed. The laundry had been moved, but so had the small ceramic jar Ivy used for her paintbrushes. Her easel was collapsed and shoved behind a stack of plastic crates filled with soda and cheap beer.
One of the tubs bore her initials, barely visible beneath a layer of dust. She hadn’t touched any of it. It was as if her identity had been packed into boxes and repurposed without her consent.
Back inside the house, I watched her set four places at the dinner table. Rosalind barked a command from the hallway about needing paper napkins. Ivy nodded obediently, adjusted the silverware, and didn’t sit down to eat until the others were halfway finished.
After the meal, she stood at the sink while Robert scrolled idly through his phone in the living room. No one offered assistance. Her posture was slumped as she scrubbed.
I noticed her wedding band sliding loosely on her finger. Leaning against the doorframe, I absorbed the scene. There was no shouting, no physical violence, no slamming doors.
It was just a slow, methodical erosion of her space, her breath, and her voice. When Ivy accidentally dropped a plate, shattering it across the tiles, she didn’t flinch. She simply knelt in silence, gathering the sharp shards with her bare hands.
I offered to help her weed the front flower beds the next morning. The ground was parched and the soil unforgiving. Ivy knelt with a grunt of effort, trying to conceal the tremors in her hands.
I saw the blisters, fresh and raw, split open at the creases of her palms.
— You need gloves — I said gently.
— I had a pair — she whispered, avoiding my eyes. — Rosalind said they were moldy and tossed them last week.
We didn’t speak after that. We just worked side by side in the dirt.
Her silence wasn’t cold; it was practiced. It was the silence of someone who had learned to shrink their existence to fit into the corners of a room. Later, while Ivy went to shower, I stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water.
That was when I saw it. Rosalind was standing by the trash can, holding a mug painted with pale blue flowers that had a faint hairline crack along the handle.
— That old thing — she scoffed to herself. — Ugly and chipped.
I said nothing. She dropped it into the bin without a second thought. The moment she turned her back, I reached into the trash and retrieved it, careful to prevent it from clinking against the waste.
I wrapped the mug in a dish towel and tucked it safely into my bag. It wasn’t just a piece of ceramic. I had given that mug to Ivy when she first left for college.
She had carried it through every apartment, every new chapter of her life. It hadn’t been cracked until recently. That night, I emerged from the guest room for water and found her on the couch.
She was curled toward the cushions, her arm thrown over her eyes, still dressed in her jeans. The television flickered mutely. A glass of half-drunk tea sat on the coffee table.
Her phone lay face down, ignored. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move.
I stood there, debating whether to cover her with a blanket, but decided against it. I returned to my room, sat on the edge of the mattress, and stared at the folded deed in my suitcase.
Tomorrow, I would drive into town. The next morning, I slipped out early without waking Ivy. The roads were desolate, offering time to think but no comfort.
I parked in front of the county office minutes before they unlocked the doors and walked in with my shoulders squared.
— Property deed for 218 Larch Hill Road — I told the clerk. — Owner name, Ivy Monroe.
She tapped on her keyboard, the printer whirred, and she slid two copies across the counter without a single question. I folded one into my purse and kept the other flat in my hand. My hands remained steady until I was back inside the car.
By the time I returned, the farmhouse was alive with noise. Rosalind was shouting at someone for dripping water on the floor. One of the sisters was laughing raucously in the hallway.
I walked through the chaos without pausing until I reached the kitchen table. I laid the document down, smoothing the edges so the text was undeniable.
— Ivy owns this house — I announced.
Rosalind spun around.
— Excuse me?
— This property — I continued, tapping the bold heading on the paper — was purchased in full with my financial assistance, but legally, it belongs to Ivy. No one else is named on the deed. That includes you, Robert.
Robert looked up from his phone, his brow furrowing.
— What is this?
— A boundary — I said. — You have until noon tomorrow to pack your things.
Rosalind opened her mouth, poised for a fight, but I raised my hand. It wasn’t a gesture of anger, but of finality.
— No need to argue. This isn’t a discussion.
A heavy silence rippled through the room. Ivy stood in the doorway, still in her morning clothes, her eyes wide with shock. I turned to her.
— You don’t have to say anything.
She didn’t speak, but she crossed the room slowly and stood at my side. That night, dinner was a silent affair. We ate off paper plates; there was no laughter, only the sound of forks scraping and the clock ticking aggressively loud.
The next morning, I woke before dawn, listening from the guest room. I heard doors opening, bags being shuffled, and low, agitated muttering behind the walls. By 11:45, the house had fallen quiet again.
However, the house didn’t find peace immediately. That night, it seemed to groan and hiss like an old wound being reopened. Doors were slammed with excessive force; cabinets were yanked open harder than necessary.
Someone dropped a pot just to let the crash echo through the halls. From the guest room, I heard Rosalind’s voice rising in pitch.
— You let her humiliate us! — she spat.
— Your own mother — Ivy’s voice was barely a whisper. — She just showed you the truth.
Then came Robert’s low reply—something bitter, something final. I couldn’t distinguish the words, but I felt the silence that followed.
I didn’t get up. I didn’t intervene. The part of me that used to smooth over awkward family dinners and write polite thank-you notes had gone dormant. I lay still, listening to the weight of consequences settling into the foundation.
In the morning, no one emerged for breakfast. The coffee was half-brewed and abandoned. Ivy sat on the edge of the porch steps, knees pulled to her chest. I sat beside her, and we watched the driveway.
At 11:52, I heard the first engine sputter to life. I stayed inside, letting them pass like a storm front. One sister emerged dragging a suitcase, muttering about disrespect.
Another followed, wearing sunglasses to hide her expression, refusing to say goodbye. Rosalind was the last to exit. She came down the stairs loudly on purpose, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood.
She didn’t look at Ivy. She barely glanced at me.
— You think this makes you right? — she snapped, stuffing a tote bag with the last of her items. — You’ve ruined your own family.
— No — I said quietly. — You just finally met the part of it that was willing to speak.
She scoffed, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the window panes, and stomped down the gravel driveway. I watched from behind the curtain as her car vanished down the road. The noise faded, but the echo of her anger seemed to linger in the air.
