My father answered, his voice clearer now, like he’d taken the phone out again but still believed the call had ended. “Just Emma. Complaining about something in the house again.”
My finger hovered over the red button. I should have hung up. Any reasonable person would have.
But something in my chest tightened, the same instinct that used to keep me very still as a kid when my parents argued in the kitchen. If I stayed quiet, I could hear what was really happening.
“What now?” my mother asked.
“Sink leaking. Like that house is some kind of endless problem.”
My mother made an impatient sound. “I don’t understand why your mother left her that house in the first place. We’re her parents. It should’ve gone to us.”
My stomach dropped, as if the floor had shifted under my feet.
My dad’s voice turned practical, the tone he used when discussing bills. “Once we’re back, we need to talk about retirement. Emma needs to understand that house is our security.”
Then he said the word that cracked something in me.
“She’s been a burden from the start.”
