The sound sliced through the air like a knife. Inside, everything went silent. Travis froze with a piece of meat suspended in midair. Laura dropped the vase onto the table, and the brandy spilled over the tablecloth I had embroidered myself.
Daniel turned toward the window first. And he saw me. His face went white as chalk.
— Mom…? he whispered.
I knocked once more. Not hard. Just enough for them to know it wasn’t an illusion.
Laura began to scream. Travis jumped up so abruptly that he knocked over his chair. For a moment, they truly looked like mourners. Just not grieving my death. Grieving their fear.
Daniel stumbled out onto the veranda.
— You… you’re alive?
— As you can see, I replied calmly. And I’m still walking on my own two feet.
A light rain was falling. The mud reached my ankles, but I didn’t care.
— But the police… they said… the forest…
— That the forest is large? Yes. But not large enough to bury me without searching for at least three days.
Laura appeared in the doorway, trembling.
— We… we thought…
— That you were rid of me? I finished for her.
Silence.
Inside, the house smelled of garlic and shame.
I walked in slowly. I leaned the shovel against the wall, right beside the coat rack where my husband’s jacket still hung. I sat down at the head of the table.
— Please, continue. What were you planning to tear down first?
No one answered.
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
— Mom… we were stressed… we didn’t know what to do…
— So you started dividing things up.
I picked up the bottle of brandy and closed it.
— A memorial without a body. Interesting custom.
Laura began to cry. But her tears no longer moved me.
— Let me make something clear, I continued. This house is in my name. The land too. And tomorrow I’m going to the attorney.
Daniel flinched.
— What attorney?
— A transfer of ownership. But not to you.
They looked at each other.
— To the town. After I’m gone, this place will become a center for children. Or for elderly people without family. Something useful.
— Mom, you can’t do that! Laura burst out.
— Yes, I can.
I stood up.
— Because I am still alive. And from what I can see, that bothers you more than my death would have.
Travis didn’t make a sound.
Daniel tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
I picked up the blue vase and wiped it with the corner of my apron.
— You’re welcome to finish the memorial meal. The food is good. Just next time, perhaps make sure the person is actually dead first.
I walked out of the house and closed the door behind me.
The next day, I went into town to see the attorney.
Within a month, the paperwork was done.
My children still come by sometimes. They sit on the bench, try to seem warm. I offer them tea.
But the house is no longer a prize. It’s just a house.
And I am no longer “old junk.”
I am its owner. And as long as I can strike my shovel into my own soil, no one will bury me before my time.
This work is inspired by real events and individuals but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been altered to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher assume no responsibility for the accuracy of the events or the portrayal of the characters and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.