“She shouldn’t have been sitting there.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
No remorse.
None.
Not hidden.
Not complicated.
Not buried beneath emotion.
She genuinely believed the chair mattered more than what she had done.
I said, “I’m going to tell you something once.”
“Oh, spare me.”
“No. You’re going to listen.”
She laughed.
I continued.
“You have spent your entire adult life assuming somebody else will absorb the consequences of whatever you do. Mom comforts you. Dad excuses you. I pay for the damage.”
“I never asked you to—”
“Yes, you did. Constantly. Sometimes with words. Sometimes by creating emergencies until someone fixed them.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You are thirty-two years old.”
“So?”
“So your life belongs to you now.”
She went silent.
I continued.
“Your rent will belong to you. Your bills will belong to you. Your employment will belong to you. Your mistakes will belong to you. And if you damage my property, the police report belongs to you too.”
