The house loomed large, more imposing than I remembered, as I stood at its wrought iron gates for the first time in fifteen years. I had returned to Georgia, expecting to find closure, maybe even a new beginning. Instead, I found my daughter, Ellen, scrubbing the marble floors of what was once my home. I couldn’t believe it. She was supposed to be halfway through college, not working as a cleaner.
I watched her for a moment, unnoticed, before stepping into the grand foyer. The echo of my footsteps on the polished floors felt like an intrusion. “Ellen?” I called out, my voice barely above a whisper. She turned, her expression a mix of surprise and something else—resignation?
“Dad? What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice steady but her eyes avoiding mine. The encounter was surreal, and I knew this was just the beginning. There were questions that needed answers, papers that had to be examined, and a family history to unravel. I could feel the weight of the past pressing against the present, demanding to be understood.
As we sat in the living room, the tension was palpable. “I thought you were in school,” I said, my voice tinged with confusion. “I was,” Ellen replied, her gaze fixed on the floor.
“Was?” I echoed, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach. She hesitated, then pulled out a crumpled letter from her pocket and handed it to me. It was an eviction notice, dated two months ago.
My mind raced. How had things spiraled so quickly? Why hadn’t she reached out? “Ellen, why didn’t you call me?”
“I thought I could handle it,” she said, her voice barely audible.
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