The framed photograph of us standing outside the house on the day we paid off the mortgage.
“Vanessa, you arrived this afternoon. I offered you temporary accommodation because my son lost his job. You responded by demanding my bedroom and ordering me out of my own dining room.”
She crossed her arms.
“I was establishing boundaries.”
I almost laughed.
“Then let me establish mine. You will not take my bedroom. You will not decide who eats at my table. And you will not speak to me as though I am a guest in a house I own.”
From the back porch came a faint scratching sound.
My elderly terrier, Tilly, had been put outside before dinner because Vanessa complained that a dog shouldn’t be near expensive china.
That was the “friend” she’d ordered me to eat with.
Tilly had lived with me for eleven years.
She was considerably better company than Vanessa had been in the six hours since arriving.
I walked to the back door and let her inside.
She trotted toward me, her nails clicking across the kitchen floor.
Vanessa made a face.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
I bent carefully and picked Tilly up.
“One more thing,” I said. “The dog stays inside.”
Michael finally spoke.
“Mom, can we please talk about this calmly?”
I looked at him.
“I’ve been calm since your wife told me to eat outside.”
His eyes fell to his plate again.
That familiar silence.
But something was different now.
I no longer felt compelled to fill it.
I carried Tilly into the living room and settled into James’s old armchair.
Behind me, I heard Vanessa whisper furiously to Michael.
Then my son answered.
“She really does own the house, Vanessa.”
The words made me close my eyes.
