I stopped.
Scrawled across the margins in her aggressive, slanted handwriting were the details of my displacement: Asking price $385,000. Open house Saturday, 10:00 a.m.
When I reached the bottom step, my mother, Yvonne, finally looked up. She didn’t even have the decency to look cornered. Instead, she wore the predatory calm of someone who had been waiting for me to walk into a trap.
“Sit down, Bridget,” she commanded, her tone devoid of invitation. “We’re selling.”
Near the stove, my stepfather, Curt, stood motionless, carefully pouring another cup of coffee. He didn’t turn around. He had survived for years by staying outside the blast radius of Yvonne’s decisions.
Across from my mother sat my half-sister, Presley. TrackPregnancy
At twenty-seven, she lived in carefully curated apathy, her iPhone propped against a porcelain sugar bowl as she filmed a close-up of her oat milk latte, capturing the steam in the morning light.
I could already imagine the caption: Quiet morning routines. #Blessed.
