That sentence never meant anything good.
Madeline sat down on my sofa without asking, crossed one leg over the other, and scanned my living room. “This place is bigger than I remembered.”
I folded my arms. “Why are you here?”
My mother answered first, using that falsely soothing tone she reserved for outrageous requests. “Your sister needs stability. You don’t have children. You don’t need all this space.”
The words landed cold.
Then my father did what he always did when trying to dress theft up as logic. He nodded toward the staircase and said, “We’ve decided it makes more sense for this house to remain in the family under Madeline’s name. We’ll work out what you’re owed.”
I stared at him.
Not help with rent. Not a temporary stay. Not shared use.
Ownership.
And when I said no, everything changed.
