The fork struck the plate so hard that the sharp clang echoed across the kitchen.
My mother leaned back in her chair and looked straight at me.
“You have forty-eight hours to move out.”
For a moment I thought I had heard her wrong.
“What?”
“This house belongs to Emily now.”
Emily.
My older sister.
The same sister who moved to California six years ago and rarely called unless she needed something.
I turned toward my father.
He avoided my eyes.
Instead, he stared down at his plate, slowly cutting another piece of chicken as though the conversation had nothing to do with him.
A tight feeling twisted in my chest.
“For five years,” I said quietly, “I’ve been paying the mortgage on this house.”
My mother shrugged.
“That doesn’t make it yours.”
“I paid for the new roof.”
“That’s just maintenance.”
“I refinished the floors.”
