That was my mistake.
Now, sitting in the truck watching Lily walk into school, I told myself we would figure something out.
I had my skills, my daughter, and the stubborn refusal to give up.
By noon, I was sitting in the public library, scrolling through job listings that never answered back.
Forty-three applications, zero replies.
That was when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
“Is this Marcus Whitfield?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “Who’s this?”
“My name is Jennifer Price,” the woman said, her voice professional and calm.
“I’m a lawyer with Okanogan Legal Partners, and I need to ask you a question that might sound strange.”
I leaned back in the plastic chair, already bracing myself.
She continued, carefully.
“Sir, why are you homeless,” she asked, “when you own a twelve-unit building on Richter Street?”
The library seemed to tilt around me.
“I don’t own anything,” I said. “There’s been a mistake.”
There was a pause on the line.
Then she said quietly, “Mr. Whitfield, I’m looking at the will right now.”
She told me about the building.
Twelve units, fully rented, steady income, all of it being directed somewhere else.
I didn’t breathe while she spoke.
When she finished, I stared at the screen of my phone, my hands shaking.
Because the name listed as beneficiary wasn’t mine.
It was Amanda’s parents.
