Brittany had been anxious for two nights before the visit.
She made a list of things she thought might still be inside.
A pair of earrings.
A sketch she'd taped behind her mirror.
A box of letters from her grandmother.
She called her father to ask whether he knew where the box was.
He said Vanessa had packed it.
Vanessa said it was probably in storage.
Neither knew which container.
Brittany hung up frustrated.
I offered to help her contact the moving company about tracing the shipment.
She said she wanted to try first.
She called and asked what details they needed.
They explained that the person who booked the move would have to authorize release of certain records.
Brittany wrote down the requirements and sent them to Travis.
He didn't answer immediately.
She was disappointed.
But she had made the call herself.
The next day, Vanessa confirmed that the letters were in a labeled box at their temporary address.
She promised to send them.
Brittany didn't fully trust the promise.
I didn't either.
We agreed to wait for a tracking number before making plans.
At dinner, she said she'd always assumed moving was simply loading a truck and driving away.
“That's what it looks like when somebody else is doing the work,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Are you talking about me?”
“I'm talking about both of us.”
She smiled reluctantly.
We made a checklist for the house visit.
It included photographs, remaining belongings, and one final look at the room.
I suggested she bring a notebook.
She said she didn't want to turn goodbye into homework.
I apologized and put the pen away.
An hour later, she brought her own notebook to the table.
“I might want to draw the room,” she said.
“Then bring it,” I answered.
We were learning to leave each other room to arrive at a decision separately.
The next morning, she made sure the notebook was in her bag before we left.
Elena arranged a visit to the house before contractors started painting.
Brittany asked that it be just the two of us.
We drove there on a gray Saturday morning.
The driveway looked narrower without Travis's truck.
A few leaves had collected beside the garage.
The porch light was on even though it was daylight.
Elena met us at the door.
She explained that the property had been returned to the company and that the remaining personal items were documented for pickup.
Then she handed me a key and left us alone for an hour.
Brittany stepped through the doorway slowly.
The entryway smelled of dust and cleaning solution.
A rectangle of darker paint marked where Travis's family portrait had hung.
She touched the wall.
“Vanessa picked that frame,” she said.
I nodded.
We went upstairs.
Her bedroom was nearly empty.
The stars she'd painted on the ceiling remained.
One blue streak ran down the window trim where she'd spilled paint and refused to let anybody cover it.
She stood in the center of the room.
“I thought I'd come back here after college whenever I wanted.”
“I know.”
“Dad told me this would always be my home.”
I looked toward the closet.
“He should not have promised something he couldn't guarantee.”
“Neither should you,” she answered.
I turned toward her.
She wasn't looking for an argument.
She was remembering the Mercedes.
“You're right.”
We sat on the floor where her bed had stood.
She told me about a night when Travis had tried to teach her to play guitar.
He only knew four chords.
They'd made up a terrible song about the neighbor's dog.
She laughed as she described it.
Then she grew quiet.
“I still had good times with him.”
“Of course you did.”
“I don't want to erase them.”
“You don't have to.”
She pulled a marker from her bag.
On a small piece of cardboard, she wrote the date and a sentence about leaving the room.
She tucked it into her notebook instead of hiding it in the wall.
Brittany asked me to stand beside the window for one photograph.
I did.
She adjusted the angle and told me to look outside rather than at her phone.
The resulting picture showed me in profile with the empty room behind me.
She examined it for a long time.
“You look tired,” she said.
“I am a little.”
“Did you like this house?”
“I liked knowing you had a place where you could spend time with your father.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
I looked around.
“I liked the garden. I liked your painted ceiling. I didn't like how much we were all pretending.”
She nodded.
Then she took one more photograph of the doorway.
She said she might use the images for a drawing later.
I told her I'd like to see it if she chose to share.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“Maybe I will.”
We took photographs of the stars.
We photographed the window where she used to hang paper snowflakes.
We found a forgotten hair clip behind a radiator cover.
She picked it up like an artifact.
When we went downstairs, I asked whether she wanted to see the backyard.
She nodded.
The grass had grown long near the fence.
A birdbath stood beside the maple tree.
“Remember when Dad taught me to ride a bike here?”
“I remember taking you to urgent care after you scraped your knee.”
She smiled.
“He told me not to tell you I'd fallen.”
I gave a rueful laugh.
“I knew because your elbow was wrapped in a towel.”
“He wasn't always trying to trick you.”
“I know.”
That was important to say.
Even people who lied could have moments of real tenderness.
I didn't need to deny the tenderness to name the lies.
She checked the closet once more before we left the room.
It was empty.
She closed the door gently, as if someone might still be sleeping on the other side.
Before leaving, Brittany asked what would happen to the property.
“Probably another tenant,” I said. “Elena has people on the waiting list.”
“Will they paint over the stars?”
“Maybe. It's their home next.”
She watched the branches move.
“I guess that's okay.”
On the way to the old house that morning, Brittany had asked me to stop at a bakery.
She said she wanted to buy something for Elena because the property manager had arranged the visit.
We found a little shop near the train station.
Brittany chose a box of pastries.
Then she hesitated at the register.
“I'll pay,” she said.
“You don't have to.”
“I want to.”
I stepped aside.
She paid from her first small paycheck and carried the box carefully to the car.
When Elena met us at the house, Brittany held it out.
“Thank you for letting me come.”
Elena looked genuinely surprised.
“That's kind of you.”
Brittany glanced at the key in Elena's hand.
“Are you the person who takes care of all Mom's houses?”
“Not alone,” Elena said. “We have a team.”
Brittany asked what a normal day looked like.
Elena described maintenance calls, rent records, inspections, emergencies, and the occasional tenant who left furniture on a balcony despite a building rule.
Brittany listened.
“I thought my mother just bought buildings and collected rent.”
Elena laughed.
“I wish it were that simple.”
She described a family whose heat had failed during a January storm.
She had spent the night arranging temporary heaters and contacting contractors.
She described a tenant who needed an accessibility improvement and the work required to make it happen properly.
Brittany looked at me.
“You never told me about any of that.”
“I didn't want to bore you.”
“Maybe I wouldn't have been bored.”
Elena handed us the key.
“Take your time,” she said.
After the tour, she met us outside and asked whether Brittany had found everything she wanted.
“Not everything,” Brittany said. “But enough.”
Elena nodded as if she understood.
In the car, Brittany put the empty pastry box on her lap.
“I think I misunderstood what you do all day.”
“Some days I misunderstand it too.”
She laughed.
Then she said she'd like to visit my office again sometime, not to read trust papers but to see how the company worked.
I asked why.
“Because it's part of your life. I keep complaining that you don't know mine. Maybe I should know yours too.”
That touched me more than I expected.
I told her she could come for an afternoon.
We would arrange it without making her feel obligated to join the business.
She agreed.
Two weeks later, she spent three hours shadowing Simone and Elena.
She watched them coordinate a repair, approve an invoice, and explain a lease renewal to a tenant.
She asked questions.
She also made a sketch of the office courtyard while she waited.
On the drive home, she said she didn't think real estate was for her.
I told her that was fine.
Then she added that she could see why the work mattered to me.
I held that sentence quietly.
We had spent years looking at the same life from opposite sides of a locked door.
Understanding did not mean agreement.
Sometimes it was simply knowing what the other person did when you weren't watching.
Brittany opened her sketchbook.
She showed me a drawing of Elena standing in the courtyard with a phone in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
The drawing was quick and lively.
“You should give her a copy,” I said.
“I thought you weren't going to manage my art career.”
“I was making a friendly suggestion.”
She smiled.
“Then maybe I will.”
On the drive back, she asked about my childhood house.
I told her it had been a narrow brick duplex with a leaking roof.
My mother rented one floor.
When the landlord sold it, we had thirty days after receiving notice under the arrangement then in place to find somewhere else.
My mother worked extra shifts.
I packed our plates in grocery bags.
We found another apartment.
It was smaller.
I still remembered the smell of the old kitchen when we closed the door for the last time.
Brittany listened.
“Is that why you bought so many properties?”
“Partly. I liked knowing what it meant to have a stable place.”
“And you thought money made people stay.”
I looked at the road.
“Yes,” I said after a while. “Sometimes I did.”
She reached across the console and rested a hand on my arm.
“I don't want to stay just because you pay for things.”
“Then don't.”
“But I do want to see you.”
I swallowed.
“I want that too.”
When we reached the apartment, a letter from Travis was waiting in my inbox.
He wanted a meeting with Kendra and me about the former lease and money he'd spent improving the property.
He attached photographs of a patio and a storage shed.
Kendra advised a factual review of any authorized improvements and the written terms.
I forwarded everything.
I could have told him the patio had been built with funds I advanced him.
I could have listed every payment.
Instead, I left the accounting to people who could separate expenses from accusations.
Brittany was putting the hair clip in a small box when she heard me close the laptop.
“More drama?” she asked.
“More paperwork.”
She nodded approvingly.
“Good. I prefer paperwork.”
For once, so did I.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The Meeting With Travis Ended Without the Apology Either of Us Had Imagined
The Birthday Party Ended With a Returned Key and a Decision I Could No Longer Avoid
Part 9 of 12
