I looked at my son.
“You moved in because you lost your job.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“You said three months.”
“I know.”
“It’s been almost three years.”
Melissa made a disgusted sound. “And we’ve helped you.”
“With what?”
She began listing groceries she bought, times Daniel took out the trash, repairs he made, packages they accepted when I was not home.
I listened until she finished.
Then I said, “You have been living here rent-free.”
The room went silent.
Some arrangements become invisible only because one person benefits from everyone pretending they are equal.
I had paid property taxes, insurance, utilities, and most groceries. Daniel fixed a leaking faucet once and replaced a porch bulb twice. Melissa had decided that somehow balanced ownership.
My bad knee trembled.
I leaned against the box.
“Both of you need to leave.”
Daniel stood.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Mom, we can’t just—”
“Then take what you need tonight and arrange the rest properly. But you will not sleep here after what happened upstairs.”
Melissa laughed.
“This is Daniel’s home too.”
“No,” I said. “It is the place I allowed Daniel to live.”
Her face hardened.
She stepped toward me.
I did not move.
The last time she came close, she grabbed my hair and pulled me out of my bedroom while Daniel watched.
