The Shape of a Hand

For two years, my sister Agnes has promised my inheritance is coming "soon." She is the executor; I am the phantom haunting her waiting room. When my granddaughters, Cailey and Chrissy, look up from their coloring books and ask, "Can we see your house, Grandma?" I swallow the truth.

"One day," I tell them, forcing a smile.

On the drive home, the highway blurs through my tears, forcing me to pull over before I lose the road entirely. My granddaughters are old enough now to ask where I live, and when they can sleep over. I tell them the same lie I have been telling myself: Soon.

The gray speckles on my bathroom wall have multiplied, spreading into black continents. Every week they claim a little more paint. The church carpet has left permanent dents in my knees; every Sunday I ask God the same question, and every Saturday I pretend the answers don't matter. I spend those afternoons playing with the twins in their backyard, running through the sprinkler, having picnics on the grass, and building blanket forts. But every Saturday evening, I drive home and watch the mold slither across the ceiling, inhabiting another corner of the room, as though it knows I’ll never leave.

That night, I scroll through children's furniture online. White bunk beds. Princess comforters. Lavendar curtains. I close the laptop without ordering anything. Agnes says it won't be much longer. She always says that, but she doesn’t answer my calls anymore. She just texts that one demeaning word: soon.

It hadn't always been like this between Agnes and me. Before the lawyers and the estate accounts, Agnes was the one who gently brushed the knots out of my hair every morning. She made hot chocolate, tucked a blanket around me, and let me watch Christmas cartoons while she decorated a towering tree all by herself, her small hands hanging ornaments that bedazzled me. On nights when my bedroom window rattled like a splitting tomb and bone-white flashes lit up the backyard, she was the sister who climbed into my bed and held my hand under the covers.

Long into the early hours, she stayed with me, until the pelting rain finally softened into a quiet drizzle. She’d always say, “I can be mom today just for you, Lilly. I can do anything she can do,” holding her chin high and giving me a wink that instantly quieted my racing heart.

Then, and only then, was I able to block out the early morning sounds of the zipper around the expensive leather suitcase, the high heels clacking across the foyer floor, and the taxi honking outside. Its lights poured through the front window, creating long, moving shadows all around us. There wasn’t a day that went by back then when I wouldn’t wrap my arms around her and say, “I love you, Aggie.”

The shift happened so gradually I barely noticed the frost setting in. It began when I started borrowing money from her. At first, I asked for a small advance from the inheritance to buy my daughter, Anna, toddler car seats for the twins who had just turned two. Then, to help Anna with her rent when her hours at the pharmacy were cut. Then, to help Anna pay for gas and car insurance.

The borrowing escalated. I remember the exact afternoon the glue that held us together—not only as sisters, but as best friends—began to dry up and crumble. We were sitting in her pristine, beige living room, months after the funeral, when I asked for yet another small advance. I shifted my gaze from Agnes’s no longer recognizable expression to a gold statue perched on a marble end table. My sister incarnate, I realized—its chiseled eyes silently judging me. The atmosphere turned to glass. Each one of my breaths caught on the sharp corners of the room.

“It’s only a tiny amount this time,” I pleaded, my voice sounding fragile and unfamiliar.

Agnes didn't look up from her spreadsheet. Her thumb stroked the rim of her porcelain teacup, creating a rhythmic, irritating scratch.

"I wish you’d help me understand, Lillian, why Anna had children she most certainly can’t afford on her own.”

She let out a deep sigh.

“Your daughter should have waited, put her career first.” Her tone lacked its usual melody, replaced by a flat clip. Lifting her head, she fixed her gaze on me. “The legal process takes time. You’ll have to tell Anna that you can’t be her financial institution for a while.”

It was the first time I saw the ledger in her eyes. The money wasn't just currency to her; it was leverage. I watched carefully as her face drained of color, a sour, sickly green pallor replacing the usual blush in her cheeks. Something distorted flashed in her gaze—the color of a bank note, tainted by a bitter hunger for a devotion she could never buy.

I looked down at my phone and saw Chrissy and Cailey smiling back, their sky-blue eyes alight. I could almost feel their arms around me—hugs unequaled by anything I’d ever felt, except for when Anna was a tiny infant smelling of warmth and pure sweetness.

Now, two years later, the answer is still “soon.”

Every Sunday I scrub the bathroom walls before church. Every Monday the mold returns, spreading behind the mirror. On Wednesday I catch myself apologizing to it for trying to wash it off, as if it will go on its merry way flattered that I care so much. By Friday, that one black stain returns in exactly the shape of a child’s hand, looming larger every time I look up. The mold always seems darkest on the mornings Agnes promises, "soon."

One day, I notice the decay has reached the princess wallpaper sample I taped to the wall months ago. I peel it off, and the wallpaper turns to dust in my palm. A scream flies past my lips. I grab a hammer from the kitchen and punch through the plaster, desperate to destroy it. I strike again and again, but behind the shattered drywall, a void of black rot stares back. The wall is structurally unsafe.

My phone buzzes. A text from Agnes: soon.

I drop the hammer and look at her name on the glowing screen. I think of her immaculate, empty house. No Barbie dolls on the floor, no toast crumbs and remnants of peanut butter on the couch, no one to call her grandma. She has traded a family for a bank account, and she is holding mine hostage just to keep her company.

Later that same night, I awake to a beam from the streetlight outside my window glinting off the silky thread of my worn pillowcase. In my mind, it’s crisp, white, and new. In reality, it’s dull, yellow, and ancient. A tightness in my chest brings on a ragged coughing fit. I blame the mold. And Agnes.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Another text from Agnes: Don’t worry, I’m working on it, it won’t be much longer now. I promise it will be very “soon”.

A 3:00 AM text. The ultimate power move. This time, I don’t type a reply. Instead, I open my laptop. My fingers fly over the trackpad to the online shopping cart. Click. The white bunk beds are secured. Click. The princess comforters. Click. The lavender curtains. My savings account drains to zero, but the suffocating panic never comes. In its place is a cold, brilliant calm.

The next morning, I dial a phone number I should have called months ago—a legal aid attorney who specializes in estate disputes. As the line begins to ring, I grab my purse and step across the threshold of my ruined apartment.

I tug at the heavy wooden door and close it firmly behind me. I leave the mold, the waiting, and the ghost of my sister behind in the dark. I am not running away. I am going to collect what is mine.