As they clomped upstairs, Mom gave my shoulder a patronizing pat. “Don’t make a scene. It’ll be nice having everyone together.”
I watched her follow them, feeling like I’d somehow been reduced to a visitor in the place that belonged to me.
“But it’s my house,” I whispered into the empty hallway.
The next two months were pure misery. Dirty dishes stacked up endlessly, laundry sat rotting in the washer until it smelled sour, and food disappeared from the fridge without warning. No rent was paid. No bills were shared. Not even a simple “thank you.”
One morning, as I once again scrubbed breakfast dishes, Tyler and Gwen walked into the kitchen looking unusually cheerful.
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