Chapter 12: Returning to the Estate
The iron gates of the Vance estate looked smaller in the daylight, their ornate black scrollwork rusted slightly near the hinges where the groundskeepers had neglected them during the federal investigation. I pulled our rented sedan up the gravel drive, the tires crunching a familiar rhythm that used to send a cold knot of dread straight to my stomach whenever I heard Eleanor’s Mercedes approach. Clara had stayed behind at the apartment with a neighbor, preferring the smell of fresh pancakes and watercolor paper to the oppressive memories locked inside these brick walls. I walked up the marble steps, my boots echoing against the grand portico where photographers had camped out just a week prior to capture images of the fallen philanthropist. The heavy oak front door was unlocked, left slightly ajar by the estate manager who was currently cataloging the remaining furnishings for the bankruptcy court. Inside, the foyer was dead silent, stripped of the elaborate floral arrangements that Eleanor used to change twice a week to match the seasonal palette of her drawing room. My father sat alone in the leather armchair by the grand piano, a glass of amber scotch resting on the small side table beside him, staring blankly at an empty patch of wall where an oil portrait of his wife had recently been removed. He looked older than his years, his silk tie loosened and his silver hair untidy, completely stripped of the corporate armor he wore every day of his life. When I stepped onto the Persian rug, the soft creak of the floor made him flinch, his head turning slowly toward me with an expression of profound weariness. We didn't exchange pleasantries or argue about the past; there was simply too much ruin between us for words to bridge the gap easily. He pointed a trembling finger toward a cardboard box sitting on the piano bench, containing the childhood photo albums and handmade gifts I had left behind in my old bedroom before cutting ties. I walked over, picked up the heavy cardboard flaps, and felt the familiar weight of my history resting in my hands without any fear attached to it.
