In the room that would be Amara's, afternoon light fell across scuffed hardwood. Amara spun in the center and said, "Yellow," with the conviction of a prophet.
Nia smiled despite herself. Then she went into the master bedroom and closed the door most of the way and stood alone with the folder Simone had handed her.
She read.
She read the short sale approval letter with the bank's cold mercy. She read the settlement statement showing what they would walk away with after fees—almost nothing, a number so small it felt like a joke told in poor taste. She read Simone's commission structure and found nothing predatory. She read Marcus's unemployment award letters and the rejection emails from firms that had "gone in another direction." She read a printed text thread between Marcus and Simone that was almost entirely about box counts, school district transfer forms, and whether the orange tree was a Valencia or a navel. She read until the light in the window shifted from gold to the blue of early evening.
When she opened the door, Marcus was sitting on the floor in the hallway with his back against the wall and his head in his hands. Simone was in the kitchen with Amara, showing her how the pantry shelves adjusted. Their voices floated down the hall—Amara's bright, Simone's patient.
Nia sat beside Marcus on the hallway floor, heels and all, cream blouse and all, and let her shoulder touch his for the first time since she had walked into the foyer.