Catherine -
I've always believed that ruin has a particular sound—not the dramatic crash you'd expect, but something quieter. More insidious. Like the whisper of silk against skin as expensive dresses are folded into trunks, or the hollow thud of books being stacked in crates. The sound of a life being dismantled, piece by careful piece.
Standing in what used to be our grand foyer, I watched two men in ill-fitting coats struggle with the Monet that had hung above the marble console for as long as I could remember. Water lilies in impossible blues and greens, painted by a dead man's hand and worth more than most people would see in a lifetime. Now it was just another asset to be liquidated.
"Careful with that," I said, though my voice came out sharper than intended. The men paused, looking at me with the particular blend of pity and impatience reserved for fallen gentility. One of them—a thin man with nicotine-stained fingers—actually had the audacity to smirk.
"Don't worry, miss. We know what we're doing."
Do you? I wanted to ask. Do you know that my mother used to stand in front of that painting every morning with her coffee, telling me about the way light changes everything? Do you know that Jamie traced those brushstrokes with his finger when he was learning to read, following the curves like they were letters in some secret alphabet?
But I said nothing. Pride, my mother always said, was both a virtue and a vice. Today it felt more like armor—thin and brittle, but better than nothing.
The house echoed differently now, hollow and strange. Twelve bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a library that could house a small college, and a ballroom where my parents had hosted charity galas that made the society pages. All of it emptying like water through a broken dam. The Persian rugs were already gone, along with most of the furniture. What remained looked lost and purposeless, like actors on a stage after the play has ended.
I pressed my back against the curved banister of the grand staircase and watched the systematic destruction of everything I'd ever known. Twenty-two years old, and the foundation of my world was crumbling beneath my feet like sugar in rain.
"Catherine."
My mother's voice drifted down from the landing above, soft and careful in that way that meant she was trying not to break something—herself, me, or what was left of our carefully constructed denial. I looked up to find her gripping the mahogany railing, her knuckles white against the dark wood. Even in ruin, she was beautiful—the kind of bone-deep elegance that doesn't fade with poverty. But there were new lines around her eyes, and her skin had taken on a translucent quality that made her look fragile as spun glass.
"The solicitor wants to speak with us," she said. "In your father's study."
The way she said "your father's study" instead of just "the study" told me everything I needed to know about the conversation waiting for us. It was no longer our house, our life, our anything. We were visitors now in our own home, counting down the hours until even that courtesy expired.
I climbed the stairs slowly, my hand trailing along the banister. How many times had I run up these steps as a child, my palm sliding over this same smooth wood? How many times had I sat on these stairs in my best dress, waiting for my parents to finish getting ready for another event I was too young to attend? The memories felt heavy today, like stones in my chest.
Mother was waiting at the top, and for a moment we just looked at each other. There was so much we weren't saying—couldn't say, maybe. That this was our fault for trusting him. That we should have seen it coming. That love and loyalty had made us blind to the signs that must have been there all along.
"Is Jamie...?" I started.
"In the kitchen with Mary," she said. "He doesn't need to hear this."
No, I thought. He doesn't. My little brother had already lost enough—his friends, his school, his certainty that the adults in his life could protect him from anything. He didn't need to lose his hope too.
We walked down the hallway together, past empty rooms and naked walls where family portraits used to hang. The solicitor's voice carried through the heavy oak door of the study, measured and professional. The voice of a man delivering bad news to people who could no longer afford to shoot the messenger.
Mother paused with her hand on the door handle. "Whatever he tells us," she said quietly, "we'll manage. We always do."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure I believed her. We'd never had to manage anything worse than deciding which charity gala to attend or whether the roses in the garden needed more attention. This felt like stepping off a cliff and hoping we'd learn to fly on the way down.
The door opened, and I got my first real look at the architect of our destruction.