“That’s a horrible thing to say,” I responded, trying to keep my voice steady, but the frustration was creeping through.
Mrs. Callahan shrugged nonchalantly, her expression a mix of curiosity and disdain. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking,” she said, her voice too loud for my liking. “He complained about your kids for years. Now, I wonder what will happen with all the HOA complaints.”
I didn’t respond. What could I say? Mrs. Callahan had never been a fan of my family. She had been the one to take notes every time my kids played too loudly, too late, or rode their bikes near the sidewalk. The neighborhood had always known her as the one who couldn’t tolerate any noise or disruption. But this? This was beyond the pale.
Before I could say anything else, a black sedan rolled to the curb, drawing my attention. Mrs. Callahan, still standing on the sidewalk, leaned in closer. “You watch,” she muttered with a sly smile. “His family’s going to come after you for all the complaints he made about your kids.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the presence of the sedan was enough to distract me. A woman stepped out of the car, tall and elegant, with sharp features that immediately reminded me of Mr. Henderson. She wore a sleek black suit that spoke of wealth and refinement, a stark contrast to the disheveled house she was walking toward. This had to be his daughter.
She didn’t head toward her father’s house, though. Instead, she walked right up our path, her heels clicking on the concrete like an ominous countdown.
I stepped out onto the porch, wiping my hands on a dish towel. Sam stood beside me, his expression guarded. Instinctively, I rested a hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure him, though I wasn’t sure what was about to happen.
The woman stopped at the bottom of the steps, her sharp eyes scanning me and my children, as though sizing us up.
“Are you the mother of the three rascals that made my father yell?” she asked, her tone almost mocking, but there was something behind it that made my heart beat faster.
I hesitated for a moment. “Depends on who’s asking,” I said cautiously. “I’m Jenelle.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m his daughter. Although, I think my face gives that away. I know I look like my father. I’m Andrea.”
Her words hit me like a gust of cold wind. It was her—Mr. Henderson’s daughter. I had never met her, but there was something unsettling about how easily she said it, as if her identity was a badge she wore with little care for the implications.
Leo, who had been standing behind me, stepped forward, his small frame almost lost in the shadow of this woman. He looked at her with a mix of curiosity and caution, unsure how to react to this new presence.
Andrea didn’t wait for me to speak. Instead, she placed a small metal lockbox in front of me, her hands steady despite the tension in the air.
“This is for him,” she said, her voice quiet, almost hesitant, as her gaze fell on Leo.
“For Leo? Why?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The box felt heavy in my hands, as though it carried more than just its physical weight.
Andrea didn’t answer right away. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, her expression unreadable. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer than before.
“Because my father put it in writing,” she said, her eyes flickering with something I couldn’t quite place. “And because I’m tired.”
Before I could respond, she turned and left, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement as she walked back to her car. I watched her go, the strange finality of her presence hanging in the air.
Leo, his eyes wide, climbed onto a chair to get a closer look at the box, his fingers hovering over it as if it might explode if he touched it.
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