The driveway was almost empty by late afternoon.
The locksmith had finished giving his statement.
The officers had completed the initial documentation.
The reporters were preparing to leave after confirming which records they could independently examine.
My father stood near his car.
He was speaking on his phone.
I couldn't hear the conversation.
But I recognized his posture.
His shoulders were stiff.
His free hand moved sharply whenever he became frustrated.
My mother sat in the passenger seat.
Nathan placed both suitcases in the trunk.
He closed it harder than necessary.
Then he looked toward the house.
I watched him through the entrance window.
He didn't wave.
He didn't apologize.
He simply got into the car.
Before leaving, my father looked toward the security camera.
He raised one hand.
Not a goodbye.
More like a warning.
Then the car pulled away.
I remained at the entrance.
I watched the vehicle disappear down the driveway.
I didn't feel victorious.
I felt empty.
Marcus came to stand beside me.
“You did well.”
I nodded.
He looked at the damaged frame.
“We'll have the contractor document everything before the repair.”
I agreed.
He reminded me to keep all the recordings and avoid direct contact with my father while the investigation continued.
I told him I would.
The reporters left shortly afterward.
They had copies of the documents Marcus had approved for review.
They would verify the information before publishing anything.
I appreciated that they had not promised a dramatic story.
I wanted accuracy.
Not another family version of events.
When the last car left, I walked through the manor.
The entrance hall looked different.
A small piece of wood remained on the floor.
I picked it up.
It was the broken edge of the doorframe.
I placed it on the table beside the staircase.
I wasn't sure why.
Maybe I wanted to remember what had happened.
Maybe I simply didn't want the damage to disappear before I had properly acknowledged it.
I walked into the library.
The binder was still on the table.
I closed it and placed it in the cabinet.
Then I went into the kitchen.
I made tea.
The kettle sounded unusually loud.
For years, Christmas had been a day I prepared for other people.
I bought gifts.
I called relatives.
I checked whether everyone had eaten.
I tried to make sure nobody was upset.
I used to think that if I made everything easy enough, they might finally remember me.
Now I stood in my own kitchen.
There was no tree yet.
No presents.
No family gathering.
Just a cup of tea and a quiet house.
And I was not waiting for anyone to arrive.
That evening, I called my gallery director.
She had been following the situation from a distance.
She asked whether I wanted to postpone the residency preparations.
I told her no.
The guest rooms still needed finishing.
The studio needed furniture.
The ballroom needed lighting.
The project had not changed.
She asked whether I was sure.
I looked toward the library.
“Yes.”
I explained that I wanted to continue.
The next morning, I walked through the guest rooms with the contractor.
We discussed beds, storage, lighting, and privacy.
One room needed a new window latch.
Another needed fresh paint.
I made notes in the same notebook I had used when I first bought the manor.
The drawing of the library was still there.
The words temporary residence were written above the guest-room plan.
I ran my finger over the pencil lines.
I remembered why I had purchased the property.
It wasn't to have the biggest house.
It wasn't to impress anyone.
It was to create a place where people could rebuild without having to beg for permission.
The contractor asked whether I wanted to change the entrance design after the damage.
I looked at the broken frame.
“No. I want it restored properly.”
He nodded.
We agreed to use the original finish.
I wanted the brass lock to remain.
Not because I wanted to remember the attack.
Because I didn't want the attack to decide what the house would look like.
That afternoon, Marcus called.
He told me the documents had been submitted for further review.
The lender's fraud unit was continuing its examination of the guarantee.
The investigators would contact us if they needed additional information.
I thanked him.
Then I returned to work.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel the need to explain my decisions to anyone.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: The First Christmas I Spent in My Own Manor Taught Me That Being Alone Was Not the Same as Being Forgotten
My Family Remembered My Address Only After I Bought the One Thing They Could Not Afford to Lose
Part 15 of 20
