My mom sl:ammed her fork onto the plate during dinner and told me I had 48 hours to move out, saying our Burlington house now belonged to my sister.

I looked toward my father.

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he focused on cutting another piece of chicken as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.

Something twisted painfully in my chest.

“For five years,” I said quietly, “I’ve been paying the mortgage.”

My mother shrugged.

“That doesn’t make it yours.”

“I replaced the roof.”

“Maintenance.”

“I refinished the floors.”

“That was your decision.”