“Guess your money can buy you a hotel.”
I grabbed my coat.
“Are you sure?”
Mom laughed.
“Absolutely.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
My response confused her.
She’d expected crying, an apology, perhaps my credit card being placed on the counter.
Instead, I went upstairs, gathered the few belongings left in my childhood room, and walked out.
Three days later, my phone rang at 6:11 a.m.
Kayla was screaming.
“Emma, Mom got a notice. Something about the house. She’s losing it.”
I sat upright.
“No,” I said quietly.
“She’s finally reading the lease.”
By eight that morning, Mom had called twenty-two times.
I answered over coffee.
“What did you do to my house?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“It isn’t your house.”
Silence followed.
Then: “Excuse me?”
