I did not confront them then. I waited.
Daniel picked up the notice with shaking hands. “You’re kicking us out of the townhome?”
“I’m ending the arrangement you said made you feel like children waiting for handouts.”
My brother-in-law coughed into his napkin. My sister looked at Daniel with obvious disappointment.
Marissa’s voice sharpened. “That townhome is basically Daniel’s inheritance.”
“No,” I said. “It is my property.”
Daniel stepped closer. “Dad would never let you treat me like this.”
That hurt, but not enough to make me change my mind. My husband had spent his final year begging Daniel to stop expecting rescue and start keeping promises. Daniel cried at the funeral, then asked me two weeks later if he could move into the townhome “just until things stabilized.”
I said yes because grief had made me soft.
Now Christmas made me clear.
