Chapter 5 - CLEANING OUT THE PAST
In late April, two months after the dramatic scene on the courthouse steps, I flew back to Columbus for three days.
I didn't bring the children. This trip was for a single purpose: to reclaim my grandmother’s house, clean out the lingering decay of Andrew’s presence, and put the property on the market so I could close that chapter of my life forever.
Caleb flew with me. When we pulled into the driveway of my old home, the afternoon sun was shining through the thick branches of the oak trees. The padlock the sheriff had placed on the door was still there, rusting slightly from the early spring rain.
I unlocked the padlock, turned my key in the original brass lock, and pushed the heavy wooden door open.
The house was quiet, filled with the stale air of a space that had been shut tight for two months.
Walking through the foyer, I saw the physical traces of the chaos that had transpired here. Boxes had been half-packed and abandoned in the hallway. In the living room, furniture had been moved around carelessly.
I walked upstairs into the master bedroom—the room where Andrew had slept with Paige while I was pushed into the small guest room down the hall.
The bed was unmade. Throw pillows were scattered across the floor. On the nightstand sat an empty glass of wine and an old, framed photograph of Andrew and me from our early years of marriage, its glass cracked down the middle.
I picked up the photo frame, looked at the faces of two young people who had no idea how much cruelty lay ahead, and dropped it straight into the black heavy-duty trash bag Caleb was holding.
"We start from the top and work our way down," Caleb said, rolling up his sleeves. "Anything he touched, anything his mother brought in, anything that smells like them—it goes directly into the dumpster outside."
For forty-eight hours, Caleb and I worked tirelessly. We hired a professional deep-cleaning crew and a local junk removal service.
We emptied the closets, throwing away Andrew’s leftover clothes, Cynthia’s ridiculous decorative knick-knacks, and the cheap luxury items Paige had bought with stolen money. We stripped the wallpapers, scrubbed the hardwood floors, and repainted the master bedroom in a bright, clean, immaculate shade of white.
On the second afternoon, while I was sweeping the back porch, a silver sedan pulled up to the curb across the street.
I recognized the car immediately. It belonged to Cynthia.
She got out slowly. In just two months, Andrew’s mother seemed to have aged ten years. Her posture, once so rigid and proud, was stooped. Her tailored suit looked slightly ill-fitting, and her hair was no longer perfectly styled.
She walked up the driveway, her steps hesitant, stopping at the edge of the lawn.
"Rebecca," she called out, her voice raspy, stripped of its former sharpness.
I set my broom down against the porch railing and stood at the top of the steps, looking down at her. I didn't say a word. I didn't need to.
Cynthia swallowed hard, clutching her handbag tightly against her chest. "I... I saw the dumpsters outside. Andrew said you were clearing out the house."
"It's my house, Cynthia," I said calmly. "I can do whatever I want with it."
"His legal team told us yesterday that the grand jury is proceeding with the indictment," Cynthia said, her eyes watering with bitter, desperate tears. "They are threatening him with three years in state prison, Rebecca. Three years! He's thirty-six! His life will be completely destroyed!"
"He destroyed his own life when he chose to break the law, steal money from his clients, and lie under oath," I replied, my voice steady and cold as stone.
"You could speak to the prosecutor!" Cynthia pleaded, taking a small step closer, her hands shaking. "You could tell them that it was a misunderstanding! That the money transfers were just internal family loans! If you drop your civil restitution claims, the prosecutor might offer him probation! Please, Rebecca... he is my only son!"
I looked at the woman standing on my lawn. I remembered all the times she had sat at my dining room table, picking apart my cooking, telling me I wasn't good enough for her son, telling my children that their mother was unstable, and standing by while Andrew cheated on me and tried to throw me out of my own home.
"When I was sitting in that courthouse six months ago, asking for basic child support so my daughter could stay in preschool, where was your mercy, Cynthia?" I asked softly.
Cynthia opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
"When you moved into my guest room and watched your son treat me like a servant in my own house, did you ever ask him to be merciful?" I continued. "When you told me to take my children and sleep on my brother’s couch so his pregnant mistress could have my bedroom, did you care about my children's future?"
"Rebecca, I—"
"You reaped what you sowed, Cynthia," I said, stepping back toward the open front door. "Now you and Andrew get to harvest it. Do not come onto my property again, or I will have the sheriff arrest you for trespassing, just like they did to your son."
I walked inside and closed the heavy oak door, listening to the soft click of the lock.
Through the window, I watched Cynthia stand alone on the driveway for a long moment, before turning around and slowly walking back to her car, utterly defeated.
The next day, a high-end Columbus real estate agent put the house on the market.
Because of the historic location and the immaculate renovations Caleb and I had completed, the house received four cash offers within twenty-four hours. I accepted an offer that was $50,000 over the asking price.
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As I signed the real estate sales contract at the title office, I felt a deep, profound sense of closure. The house my grandmother had given me had served its final purpose: it had funded my fresh start, protected my children, and provided the capital for our new life in Boston.
The past was officially cleaned out.
