And yes, the old van. Her husband had been strangely sentimental about that thing. Relief softened her shoulders until her sister-in-law’s laugh cut through the air.
Oh no. That’s not how it’s going to work, the woman said, exchanging a look with her brother. Naomi blinked.
Excuse me. Her father-in-law leaned forward, his tone clipped. The house and the business are family property.
You married into it. You don’t own it. The only thing you get is the van.
And frankly, you’re lucky we’re letting you have that. The lawyer frowned, flipping through papers. That’s not what’s… Enough, the older man barked, his voice a thin thread of control.
You want trouble, Naomi? Take us to court. Let’s see how far you get while pregnant, with no money. Naomi felt Isaiah’s small hand tighten in hers.
The room tilted just slightly. The smell of stale coffee mingling with her own rising nausea. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
This wasn’t the place. They were daring her to fight in their arena, and she’d already seen what they could do when cornered. Fifteen minutes later, she was standing outside with nothing but a set of van keys in her hand and the faint sound of their laughter following her into the drizzle.
On the walk to the van, parked behind the funeral hall, Isaiah kept glancing at her, as if hoping she’d say it was all a mistake. But Naomi stayed quiet, each step heavy with the knowledge that her life had just shifted into unfamiliar, dangerous territory. She ran her fingers over the van’s side panel.
Rust flaked off like brittle paper. It smelled of rain and old oil. This was her inheritance now, and for the first time all day, a strange thought settled in her chest, fine.
If this is the only thing they’ve left me, I’ll make it enough. By the time Naomi reached the parking lot, the drizzle had turned to a fine mist that clung to her hair. The van was parked under a leaning lamppost, its paint bubbled and eaten away by rust.
One of the back doors sagged like it had given up years ago. The driver’s side mirror was held together with duct tape. She opened the door and was hit with a wave of stale air, oil, mildew, and the faint metallic tang of time.
Isaiah climbed in first, sliding across the cracked vinyl seat. His small fingers traced the splits in the material, as if reading some invisible map. Mom, we’re not really living here, are we? His voice was quiet, almost hopeful.
Naomi didn’t answer right away. She set the keys in the cup holder, her hands lingering there, her eyes fixed on the dashboard. It was coated in dust, but she could still see faint fingerprints, her husband’s, pressed into the grime from when he’d last tinkered with it.
That night, they parked the van on the far side of an empty lot behind a closed hardware store. The hum of the streetlights above blended with the distant rush of traffic. Naomi wrapped Isaiah in a blanket and tucked it tight around him before lowering herself onto the narrow bench seat in the back.
Her belly made it awkward, but she didn’t care. At least here, they were out of the rain. A pair of shadows passed the van windows, voices muffled but clear enough.
That’s the Carter widow, right? Yeah, heard she lost everything. Her in-laws took it all. She was always too proud and never saw her begging…
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