I stopped outside Grandpa's study.
The voices behind me continued.
Mom was talking about curtains.
Dad was asking the movers whether they could return the following morning to collect the remaining furniture.
Chloe had started discussing paint colors.
They sounded like people planning a renovation.
Not people who had arrived the morning after a funeral.
I placed my hand on the study door.
Then I stopped.
Grandpa had told me to let them talk first.
I didn't know whether he meant a few minutes or the entire day.
I only knew he had been very specific.
"When they come back, let them talk. Then go into my study."
I'd asked him whether he was worried about something.
He'd looked toward the window.
"I want you to understand something, Maya. Not everything needs an answer the moment someone demands one."
I'd thought he was talking about his illness.
Now I wasn't sure.
I lowered my hand.
Behind me, Dad laughed at something one of the movers said.
The sound made my stomach tighten.
I had spent years imagining what it would feel like if my parents returned.
In those imagined conversations, I always had something ready to say.
I would ask why they left.
I would ask why they never called on my birthday.
I would ask whether they had ever missed me.
Sometimes I imagined myself walking away before they could explain.
Other times, I imagined hugging them.
I was ashamed of that last part for a long time.
Even after seventeen years, some small part of me had wanted my parents to come back because they loved me.
Not because they needed a house.
Not because someone had died.
Because they had finally realized they had a daughter.
But the people downstairs had not come to find out how I was.
They had come to take possession.
I went back into the kitchen.
Mom was examining the cabinets.
"We'll need to replace these eventually," she said.
"They're Grandpa's," I replied.
She looked at me.
"I know who they belonged to."
I didn't say anything else.
She closed one cupboard and opened another.
"Your grandfather kept too much stuff. We'll have to go through all of it."
Dad came in carrying a small box.
"Where did he keep the property papers?"
Mom shrugged.
"Probably in his office."
Dad glanced toward the study.
"Then I'll look."
He started toward the door.
My heart began beating faster.
I moved into the hallway before he reached it.
"Grandpa asked me not to disturb anything in there yet."
Dad stopped.
"Why?"
"He didn't say."
He studied me with a look that made me feel five years old again.
"Your grandfather is dead, Maya. He doesn't get to decide what we do anymore."
I felt the words land.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I remembered Grandpa's hand resting over mine.
His voice, weak but steady.
Let them talk.
I stepped aside.
Dad gave me a dissatisfied look and continued down the hall.
But before he reached the study, Mom called him back.
"David, the movers need to know what we're keeping."
He hesitated.
Then he turned away.
I stood very still.
I didn't know whether that counted as the waiting Grandpa had asked of me.
I only knew the door remained closed.
A few minutes later, a mover came into the kitchen.
"Sir, we've got a question about the desk upstairs."
Dad walked over.
"What's the problem?"
"It's heavy, and the stairs are narrow. Do you want us to take it apart?"
Dad rubbed his chin.
"Which desk?"
"The one in the bedroom."
I knew the desk.
Grandpa had bought it secondhand when I was in high school because I'd needed a place to study.
He'd sanded the surface and repaired one of the drawers himself.
Dad waved toward the stairs.
"Leave it for now. We'll deal with it later."
The mover nodded.
I watched him leave.
My father had been absent for most of my life, but he was suddenly comfortable giving orders about the smallest objects in a house he'd barely visited.
I wondered whether he'd even remember the desk if someone asked him where it came from.
That thought made me angry.
Then I felt guilty for being angry.
Grandpa had taught me that anger could make a person careless.
He'd never said I wasn't allowed to feel it.
He'd only asked me to be sure I knew what I was doing before I acted on it.
I took the birthday card from my pocket.
The paper had softened at the folds.
On my eighteenth birthday, Grandpa had written that growing up didn't mean I had to become hard.
He'd said I could protect myself without becoming someone I didn't recognize.
I folded the card and put it away.
The afternoon dragged on.
Mom ordered food, but nobody asked whether I wanted any.
Chloe took a phone call upstairs and spoke loudly about needing a fresh start.
Dad walked through the house with a notebook, making a list of repairs.
Every now and then, I caught him looking at me.
Whenever our eyes met, he looked away first.
I began to understand something I hadn't wanted to admit.
They weren't uncomfortable because they had hurt me.
They were uncomfortable because I was there to remind them.
At around five, the movers began packing up their equipment.
The truck was nearly full.
Grandpa's armchair was inside.
So was the dining table.
A stack of boxes sat near the rear doors.
Dad told the crew they would return the next day.
Then he turned to me.
"Have you found somewhere to stay?"
I stared at him.
"No."
He nodded as though I'd confirmed a minor inconvenience.
"You'll have to work something out."
"You're asking me to leave the only home I've had since I was five."
He pressed his lips together.
"Don't turn this into a fight."
I almost laughed.
He'd been gone for seventeen years.
Now he was standing in the hallway telling me not to make things difficult.
"Did you ever think about coming back?" I asked.
His expression changed.
"That's not relevant right now."
"It is to me."
He looked toward Mom.
She had appeared in the doorway, listening.
Dad lowered his voice.
"We all made decisions when you were young. It was a difficult time."
"I was five."
He rubbed his forehead.
"Maya, please."
That was the closest he'd come to sounding like a father.
And it was only because he wanted the conversation to end.
I waited for him to say something else.
He didn't.
Mom crossed her arms.
"You have to stop living in the past. You're grown now."
I looked at her.
"I didn't choose the past."
She turned away.
That evening, I carried my bags to the small room at the back of the house.
It had once been used for storage.
There was a narrow window, a folding bed, and a stack of old magazines beside the wall.
I set my bags down.
I couldn't imagine sleeping there, knowing my parents were occupying the rest of the house as if I'd never belonged in it.
I sat on the edge of the bed and listened.
For a while, there was nothing but the low murmur of conversation downstairs.
Then Chloe laughed.
I closed my eyes.
When I was nine, Grandpa had taken me to the beach for my birthday.
I'd asked whether my parents might come to visit one day.
He'd stopped walking and looked out at the water.
"I don't know what they'll do, sweetheart."
"Did I do something wrong?"
He'd crouched in front of me.
"No."
"Then why don't they want me?"
His face had changed.
He pulled me close and held me for a long time.
"Some people make choices that have nothing to do with the worth of the person they leave behind."
I hadn't understood him then.
I thought there had to be a reason.
Children always think the adults know something they don't.
I spent years looking for the reason in myself.
Maybe I was too quiet.
Maybe I asked too many questions.
Maybe I wasn't as pretty or clever as Chloe.
Maybe if I'd been easier to raise, my parents would have returned.
Grandpa never encouraged those thoughts.
But he couldn't stop me from having them.
I leaned forward and pressed my palms against my eyes.
I was tired.
Not just from the funeral or the argument.
I was tired of being the only person in the room who seemed to remember that I had once been a child.
After a while, I heard footsteps approaching.
Dad appeared in the doorway.
He looked around the little room.
"You're staying here tonight?"
I nodded.
He shifted his weight.
"You could make things easier if you cooperated."
I looked up.
"Cooperated with what?"
"With the move. With the family."
I stared at him.
"What family?"
He looked annoyed.
"Don't be dramatic."
I stood.
"I want to know why you left me."
He didn't answer.
"Did you plan to come back that weekend?"
He looked toward the hallway.
"Your mother and I were dealing with a lot."
"Did you plan to come back the weekend after that?"
His jaw tightened.
"Maya, this isn't helping."
"Did you ever plan to come back?"
For a second, I thought he might tell me the truth.
Instead, he shook his head.
"We can't change what happened."
Then he walked away.
I sat down again.
The answer had not been spoken.
But I had heard it anyway.
Later, when the house had grown quiet, I slipped into the hallway.
I wanted to check the study.
The door was still closed.
I stood before it and listened.
Nothing.
I thought about turning the handle.
Then I remembered Grandpa's instruction again.
Let them talk.
Maybe he hadn't meant that I should wait for the house to become quiet.
Maybe he meant I should let them reveal themselves.
I had spent the entire day watching them.
I'd heard what they wanted.
I'd heard how they spoke about Grandpa.
I'd heard how little my life mattered to them now that they had decided the property was theirs.
There was nothing left for them to explain.
I rested my forehead against the door.
"I'm trying, Grandpa," I whispered.
Then I stepped back.
I returned to the small room and lay down fully dressed.
Sleep came in short pieces.
Every time I woke, I heard the house settling around me.
Once, I thought I heard Grandpa's footsteps moving down the hall.
I sat up quickly.
The hallway was empty.
I pressed my hands against my face and waited for the ache in my chest to settle.
Near dawn, I finally slept.
When I woke, the room was pale with morning light.
For a few seconds, I forgot what had happened.
Then I saw the black bags beside the bed.
I remembered.
I dressed, washed my face, and walked toward the kitchen.
Dad was already there, drinking coffee.
He glanced at me.
"We need to discuss the rest of the house today."
I looked toward the study.
"No," I said quietly.
He frowned.
"What did you say?"
I kept my eyes on the closed door.
"I need to go into Grandpa's study first."
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Father Thought He Could Claim Everything Because He Was Grandpa’s Son, Until I Finally Followed the Instruction He Had Left Me
The Morning After I Buried Grandpa, My Parents Returned With a Truck and Treated My Childhood Home Like Their Property
Part 2 of 12
