Chapter 2: Dad’s House
“The papers are signed,” Eleanor said. “The new owners move in next week. I hope you’ve learned something about respecting your elders, Harper.”
For three seconds, I said nothing.
My name is Harper Sterling, and the house Eleanor was talking about was my childhood home.
It was a sprawling Victorian-craftsman house with a wraparound porch, a stained-glass window on the landing, an upstairs claw-foot tub, and an old back staircase my father, Arthur, always said was the soul of the place.
It was where I learned to read beside the fireplace.
Where I hid under the dining table during storms while Dad pretended the sky was only “moving furniture around.”
And according to Eleanor, she had just taken it from me.
“The house?” I asked evenly. “You mean Dad’s house?”
Her breath sharpened through the phone.
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand.” Continue Reading ⬇️
