I whispered, “Hey, kiddo.”
Clare smiled.
My daughter kicked my palm again.
And suddenly I understood something.
I had spent years believing loyalty meant enduring damage from people who shared my blood.
But maybe loyalty was supposed to work forward too.
Maybe it meant protecting the family you were building instead of endlessly subsidizing the family that refused to grow.
By Tuesday morning, the story had spread.
Of course it had.
Family drama travels faster than weather.
My aunt Rebecca called first.
She was my mother’s younger sister.
Rebecca never asked how I was doing.
She launched immediately.
“Ian, what are you doing?”
“Good morning, Aunt Rebecca.”
“Your mother is hysterical.”
“I’m sorry she’s upset.”
“You’re selling their home?”
“I’m selling my property.”
“Oh, don’t be technical.”
“Technical is usually what ownership is.”
She sighed dramatically.
“Ian.”
“What?”
“They are almost seventy.”
“They’re sixty-four and sixty-seven.”
