By mid-afternoon, I heard the unmistakable sound of my father’s truck pulling up outside. I moved to the front window and watched as he climbed out, his face pale beneath his perpetual sunburn, his jaw so tight I could see the muscle jumping even from this distance. Denise emerged from the passenger side, moving more slowly, her expression suggesting she’d swallowed something bitter and was trying not to gag on it.
When I stepped out onto my porch—my porch, on my property—they both froze at the bottom of the steps like they’d hit an invisible barrier.
“You’re not serious,” my father said, his voice carrying none of its usual bluster. It came out flat, almost disbelieving.
I leaned against the railing I now owned, crossing my arms, feeling more solid and grounded than I had in years. “About which part? Moving out like you very publicly told me to do? Or stopping the flow of money that’s been keeping your household running?”
His face drained of what little color remained. Denise’s lips parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Behind them, Tyler’s car pulled up to the curb, and even he looked uncertain as he got out, lacking his usual cocky swagger.
