Whitney folded her arms.
“So you are punishing everyone.”
“No. I am selling a property I own because I want a smaller life.”
“At Christmas.”
“The calendar did not sign the contract. I did.”
Trevor walked to the console table and picked up the envelope.
“Can I see?”
“Yes.”
He opened it and read.
Purchase agreement. Closing date. Attorney instructions. A page from the title company. All ordinary. All final enough to make the room feel different.
“You never said you were thinking about selling,” he said.
I met his eyes.
“Last February, I told you the stairs were becoming a nuisance and the yard was too much. You said, ‘But what would we do for Christmas?'”
His face changed.
“I did not mean…”
“In May, I said I was looking at condos. Whitney told me I would hate being boxed in. In August, when I mentioned a place near my sister, you both started explaining how difficult it would be for everyone if the family home disappeared.”
Whitney’s voice sharpened.
“Because people care about this place.”
“So do I. That is why I am allowed to decide when I am done carrying it.”
Trevor sat down.
The suitcase by the door suddenly drew his attention.
“Where are you going?”
“Charleston.”
“For Christmas?”
“Yes. My sister Ruth and I booked four nights. We leave tomorrow.”
Whitney looked stunned.
“You are leaving us with twenty-five people coming?”
“No,” I said. “You invited twenty-five people. You are responsible for telling twenty-five people where Christmas will be.”
“But everyone thinks it is here.”
“Then correct them.”
