“Then take it with you.”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
“You booked two weeks in Paris without asking whether I had a refrigerator. I trust you can book a hotel for tonight.”
His head snapped up.
“You are throwing out your own son?”
“I am ending an arrangement you abused.”
Brittany looked from him to me.
“How long?”
“There is a letter from my attorney in the folder explaining what happens next. You will deal with the practical details through him until I decide otherwise.”
I would not argue law on my porch. My attorney had been very clear about that. He had handled the notices, the belongings that were clearly theirs, and the process of separating their lives from my house. I had handled the locks and my own decision.
Ryan’s anger rose fast.
“This is insane.”
I said nothing.
“You are going to regret this.”
Still nothing.
“I am your only son.”
That one hurt.
He knew it would.
I let it hurt without letting it steer me.
“Yes,” I said. “And I am your only mother. That did not stop you from selling my husband’s clothes.”
He stopped.
Brittany closed the box.
“Come on,” she said quietly.
Ryan looked at her.
“What?”
“Come on.”
“You are taking her side?”
“I am saying we should leave.”
For the first time since they arrived, Brittany looked ashamed.
Not redeemed. Not innocent. Ashamed.
