The next morning, Michael walked out in his robe, acting like nothing had happened.
He had no idea I was already gone.
From Eleanor’s car down the street, I watched in silence.
At exactly 8:00 AM, black SUVs arrived.
A man in a suit stepped out.
“Michael Harris? The property has been legally purchased by Eleanor Preston.”
Michael froze. “This is my house!”
“No,” the man replied. “You defaulted. The bank sold it this morning.”
Michael stepped outside in shock as Eleanor arrived behind me.
“You can’t do this!” he shouted.
“We already did,” she said coldly.
And then demolition began.
Wall by wall, the house came down while Michael screamed and begged.
By noon, it was rubble.
By afternoon, the land was empty.
Eleanor turned to me.
“Let’s build something better here.”
And we did.
A women’s shelter.
The Eleanor Center.
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