I hit send.
The typing bubbles appeared almost immediately.
Tessa responded first.
YOU ARE NOT SELLING MY HOUSE.
I replied:
You do not own the house.
Dad:
Don’t play games with me.
I’m not.
Mom:
Ian, your sister made a mistake. We already talked to her.
Clare made a soft sound beside me.
Not a laugh.
More like disbelief.
“What?” I asked.
“They talked to her.”
“Apparently.”
“After you listed the house.”
Exactly.
I typed:
This is not about one shoe.
My father responded:
Then what the hell IS it about?
I stared at that question for several seconds.
Thirty-six years tried to answer it all at once.
Every birthday dinner I had paid for.
Every emergency loan.
Every time Dad called at six in the morning because the furnace was making a noise.
Every time Mom asked whether I could “help Tessa get on her feet.”
Every fake company.
