They had traveled.
Updated their car.
Hosted parties.
Bought expensive Christmas gifts.
They had not thought of themselves as receiving charity.
They had thought of themselves as homeowners.
Because my ownership had become invisible.
Mom said, “Your father will never agree.”
“He doesn’t have to.”
“Ian.”
“The sale is happening.”
She stood.
Her sadness hardened.
“Then I don’t know who you are anymore.”
I stood too.
“Maybe that’s because you only liked the version of me who never said no.”
She flinched.
I regretted the sharpness.
But I did not take it back.
Mom walked to the door.
Before leaving, she turned.
“Your father thinks Clare put you up to this.”
“She didn’t.”
“He thinks she wants to separate you from us.”
“No.”
“He thinks—”
“Mom.”
She stopped.
“This is me.”
That was important.
“Not Clare. Not Melissa. Not Nathan. Me.”
Her mouth trembled.
Then she left.
