When I pulled into the driveway, both their cars were there. Unusual for a Wednesday afternoon when my mother typically had book club. I entered quietly through the side door, already planning how I’d announce my early arrival and my success.
Then I heard my father’s voice carrying from the bedroom he’d converted into a home office. He was on a video call, and his voice had that particular tone—relaxed, unguarded, the way people sound when they think they’re having a private conversation.
“Yeah, Stan, we’re still living with her,” he was saying to Stanley Bennett, his old construction buddy. “What choice do we have? The housing market’s ridiculous these days.”
I froze in the hallway, about to call out, when something in his tone made me hesitate.
“Hold on, let me end this call properly,” my father said. “Audrey’s always nagging me about just hitting the red button.”
