When Norah finally asked, her large eyes wide with quiet anxiety, “Mommy, are we moving?” I knelt down to her eye level.
“Not if I can mathematically help it, bug,” I promised.
Her tiny, warm hand found mine, her grip surprisingly strong. “You can help it,” she stated. It wasn’t a question. It was the kind of absolute, unshakeable faith I had completely forgotten how to possess.
That evening, I stepped out onto the back porch and dialed Ethan, my ex-husband. We had a complicated history, but he was a fiercely protective father.
“I might need you to take Norah for a few days if this actually proceeds to a hearing,” I told him, the exhaustion finally bleeding into my voice.
He was quiet for a long beat. “Did your parents actually serve you with eviction papers? Certified mail and the whole nine yards?”
“Certified, notarized, and aggressively formatted.”
Ethan let out a long, heavy sigh. “Clara, my god. I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said flatly. “Just keep her out of the blast radius when it detonates.”
I spent my nights practicing tranquility. I would stand in front of my bathroom mirror, rehearsing my cadence, smoothing out the defensive tremors in my voice. I prepared for every angle they might use to paint me as an ungrateful, squatting parasite. But sleep remained elusive. I would lie awake in the dark, listening to the carriage house settle. I heard the copper pipes ticking as they cooled, the reclaimed wood beams breathing as the temperature dropped. I cataloged every single favor I had ever said yes to, and every toxic silence I had foolishly mistaken for familial peace. Was I simply too trusting, or was I just too desperately tired to validate my own intuition?
