The Brooks Estate. My gift. My penance.

The house stood deep within the grounds, a Victorian behemoth of dark wood with carved gingerbread trim that looked like frozen lace. I remembered it differently—quiet, almost melancholic when I closed the deal two decades ago. Now, the first-floor windows blazed with golden electric light. Even from the gates, the rhythmic thrum of bass and the high-pitched tinkle of crystal laughter drifted toward me.

A party.

I hadn’t announced my arrival. I had wanted to surprise them. I had pictured my younger sister, Lala, throwing her hands up, dropping her knitting, and rushing to embrace me, her soft cheek pressing against my weather-beaten one. I had imagined my son, Grant, now a grown man, kissing my forehead solemnly and whispering, “Mama, you’re finally home. Now you can rest.”