Page 9 of Falling for My Ex Next Door

She chuckled.

“Well, I think you know what best to do. I’ll talk to you soon,” she said.

“Yeah.”

At the end of the call, my eyes wandered to where I had kept the package. I hadn’t opened it up to see the contents, perhaps now was the right time. Now, when I felt I had finally molted the skin of cowardice that had prevented me, over the years, from doing the right thing.

Chapter Three

Clara

Revisiting Sunnyvale was a big deal for me. I lived here as a teenager when my parents had to sort things out between them. Aunt Madeline would not have me remain in the house when my parents were at odds. She had declared that it wasn’t good for a child to witness strife between parents. She couldn’t let her child experience such, so she wouldn’t allow me to know the pain and trauma of it either.

Though I used to come visit during the summer, I would experience living with her for a more extended period.

Her husband, Uncle Tristan, was a bright and funny man with whom I would spend much of my time. As a child, I sometimes wished Aunt Madeline and Uncle Tristan were my parents, and when I had to return, I cried my eyes out.

Aunt Madeline said my parents had finally settled their differences, and then I was fit to return to them. However, I didn’t want to go, and Aunt Madeline assured me that she would always come to visit me.

Of course, she kept her promise; sometimes, she came with Uncle Tristan, other times with Nana, and often with Lady, the Ragdoll cat. I had not been quite attached to Lady, but I had felt her absence when she just disappeared from the house. Aunt Madeline had tried her best to find her, but to no avail. At that point, Aunt Madeline’s suffering began.

Before heading for the house, I had visited her headstone in the church’s cemetery the previous day.

The pathways had grown weeds, and a sickening smell hung in the air. Some headstones still had shiny marbles, while others looked deserted and probably forgotten. A squirrel had been standing on its hind legs a short distance from me, and as soon as it saw me, it raced across the wild grass.

I had stopped in front of the headstone, which had “Madeline Agatha Jones, May 16, 1968 - May 30, 2022″ etched on it. A fresh bouquet was lying on it. Someone must have recently visited.

“I’m home, after a long time,” I whispered to myself and spent about an hour at the headstone.

I stood there, thinking of what was and what might have been if she was still alive.

I remembered the shocking news from my Aunt’s attorney, Mr. Williams, just after her funeral.

“I’m afraid I have some difficult news,” he began.

“What news?” I asked, sensing the gravity.

“Your aunt’s coffee shop is facing foreclosure due to outstanding debts. We must address this urgently.”

Foreclosure? I was stunned. I never knew my aunt had financial troubles.

“Do you know what the loan was for?” I pressed.

“She once joked about buying expensive artworks. I didn’t take it seriously,” he admitted.

Could my practical aunt have bought artworks with a loan? It seemed impossible.

“What can we do about the foreclosure?” I asked.

He sighed deeply. “We have limited options: negotiate a payment plan or sell the property to pay off the debt. Both options have serious financial consequences. I’m very sorry, Ms. Lisbon.”

Selling the shop wasn’t an option. That place held too many memories.

“Is there any way to stop the foreclosure?”

“It’s highly unlikely. The bank has already started the process,” he replied.

A few months later, resolutely, I called Mr. Williams.

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