Yes. Send everything.
Part 3
“What happens now?” Rachel asked, and her voice had shrunk, like even she could hear how childish she sounded.
“Now,” I said, “everyone goes home to their actual homes.”
Jake’s eyes flashed. “You can’t do that.”
“I can,” I said. “Because I own it.”
Mom’s voice broke. “We’re your parents.”
“I’m not kicking you out,” I replied, and I kept my tone firm because softness was what got exploited in this family. “You live here. You’re not being thrown out tonight. But this isn’t a housing lottery for my siblings.”
Dad stared at me like I’d slapped him. “Rent,” he said, as if the word itself was an insult.
“We need to have a different conversation,” I told them, “about expectations. About the fact that I’ve been your landlord for two years without any of you knowing it.”
Tyler let out a sharp laugh. “That’s insane.”
“What’s insane,” I said, “is showing up to divide up property you don’t own.”
Jake bristled. “We didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask,” I said. “None of you asked. For two years.”
Rachel’s cheeks flushed. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Tell you? That I saved Mom and Dad from losing the house? That I quietly paid their bills while you all posted holiday photos from ski trips and beach weekends? That I drove out here on my lunch break to meet the roofer because Dad didn’t want to deal with it?
“You were busy,” I said, and let the sarcasm stay mild. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Mom pressed a hand to her chest. “We didn’t know what we were signing.”
“You signed a quitclaim deed,” I repeated. “It’s not subtle.”
Dad’s hands curled into fists. “We’re your parents. How can you do this to us?”
“How can I do what?” I asked. “Save you from foreclosure? Maintain the property? Refuse to let you hand out bedrooms like party favors?”
Jake pointed at my phone. “You’re… you’re calling lawyers at dinner.”
“I’m texting my attorney,” I corrected. “Because this is turning into exactly what I knew it would.”
Sophie started crying in earnest, wiping her face with her sleeve. “How can you be so cruel?”
That word hit like a bad joke.
“Cruel,” I echoed. “You all started assigning parking spaces and closets. Jake, you haven’t even asked me how I’m doing in—what—three months? Six? But I’m cruel for saying you can’t move into my house.”
Tyler pushed back from the table, jaw tight. “I’m out of here.”
“Good idea,” I said. “You should all leave.”
Jake stood abruptly, knocking his napkin to the floor. “This is going to destroy the family.”
“The family,” I said, “was already fractured. This just exposed it.”
Rachel’s eyes glittered with anger. “We’ll get a lawyer.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “My attorney is Marcus Webb at Morrison & Associates. He’ll be happy to show your lawyer the deed, the closing documents, the payment records. Everything was notarized. Everything was recorded.”
Sophie hiccuped. “Mom’s going to be devastated.”
Mom already looked like someone had pulled the floor out from under her, but beneath that shock I saw something else—embarrassment. Not at the situation. At being seen.
One by one, my siblings left.
Jake slammed the front door hard enough to rattle the framed family photos in the hallway. Rachel was calling her husband before she reached her car. Sophie hurried out crying, shoulders hunched. Tyler peeled out of the driveway like the house had offended him personally.
When the taillights disappeared, the silence in the dining room became unbearable. The lasagna sat there, cooling, a sad centerpiece to a failed attempt at unity.
Mom’s hands hovered over the serving spoon like she didn’t know what to do with them anymore. Dad stared at the table.
“I can’t believe you did this,” Mom said finally, voice raw. “In front of everyone.”
I exhaled slowly. “You announced housing assignments at a family dinner. In front of everyone. I just corrected the facts.”
Dad’s eyes lifted. “We really didn’t know.”
“You signed papers,” I said. “You just never looked at them again.”
He swallowed. “We were about to lose everything. I signed whatever the lawyer put in front of me.”
“And then you forgot,” I said. “You let me handle it. You let me pay. And you kept living here like nothing changed.”
Mom’s shoulders trembled. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“You’re not going anywhere tonight,” I said. “But things do change. You can stay here, but you’ll start contributing. Or you can downsize to something you can actually afford.”
Dad’s voice came out small. “Rent. You want us to pay rent.”
“Market rate for a house like this is over four thousand a month,” I said. “I’m not doing that. I’m offering a family rate. Two thousand five hundred. Utilities included. Month to month.”
Mom made a sound like she’d been punched. “We can’t afford that.”
“Then you need to move,” I said, and the words felt like a door closing. “There are condos in Riverside for eighteen hundred. Two bedrooms. Much more reasonable.”
Dad rubbed a hand over his face. “Thirty years,” he whispered. “Thirty years of memories.”
“I know,” I said, and my throat tightened despite my effort to stay steady. “That’s why I bought it instead of letting the county take it. But memories don’t pay taxes. Memories don’t keep a roof from leaking.”