“I didn’t mean take everything!”
That sentence ended whatever remained of our marriage.
Not “don’t leave.”
Not “I’m sorry.”
Take everything.
Diane snatched the inventory sheet. “Fine. We’ll replace it.”
“You should probably solve the house first.”
I set a folder on the now-empty kitchen island.
It contained the lease, my non-renewal notice, and the property manager’s written reminder that every occupant must leave when my tenancy ended.
Michael read the opening page twice.
“What is this?”
“The house is rented,” I said.
Diane scoffed. “We know that.”
“No. You knew there was rent. You apparently didn’t know who paid it.”
I revealed the amount.
“Twelve thousand a month.”
Silence filled the room.
Then I informed Michael that his application had been denied.
His face drained of color.
Diane turned toward him. “You said it was handled.”
“I thought Dad’s trust—”
“There is no trust paying for this,” I interrupted. “There never was.”
