By mid-afternoon, the movers were carrying boxes down the stairs in steady rhythm. With every trip, another layer of comfort they’d taken for granted disappeared. My mother-in-law followed them anxiously.
“Where is that going?”
“Who paid for this?”
“We need that!”
And that’s when I said it.
“I’ve been paying the rent,” I said quietly. “Every month. And most of this belongs to me.”
Her face went pale.
“That can’t be true,” she whispered.
But it was.
And for the first time, entitlement gave way to fear.
The real panic came after the movers left.
The townhouse felt hollow—too large, too quiet. My mother-in-law sank into a chair, staring at the empty space where the dining table used to be.
“Who’s going to pay the rent now?” she asked.
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