I remember the night they found out they’d lost it. Megan cried. Todd slammed a cabinet. They talked about the “greedy cash buyer” who had swooped in and st*len their dream with money, no soul, no story, no connection to the place, just money.
I sat at that table and said nothing, and I passed the green beans, and I felt something I had not felt in two years.
A small, private, astonishing flicker of power.
They mourned that house for weeks at my dinner table, never once suspecting that the quiet old woman passing the potatoes already knew exactly who the soulless cash buyer was.
It was Rosedale Holdings.
It was me.
I had bought it weeks before the dinner, on my agent’s advice, as an investment and, if I’m honest, as a quiet place I might one day escape to. I hadn’t yet decided to live in it. I only knew I wanted something of my own again, something no one could make me grateful for.
