“She’s moving back home,” my mother continued. “You can switch to the smaller bedroom. Or you can make other arrangements.”
For a second, I honestly thought she was joking.
That bedroom had been mine since middle school. Every piece inside it existed because I worked for it. The bed frame, the desk, the curtains, the bookshelves, even the lamp by the window—I had bought all of it myself over the years.
But my mother said it like she was rearranging furniture.
Vanessa crossed her legs casually.
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