I let the silence hold for a moment, because for the first time in nine years, they were the ones waiting on me to speak. “The Oakridge house,” I said, “the one you just got a thirty-day notice for. Two weeks ago, before any of this, I signed a contract to sell it.” Deborah’s face went white beneath the streaks of her ruined makeup. My father’s hand tightened around the folder until the paper crumpled. “Sell it?” he whispered. “To who?”

“To a developer,” I said calmly. “The lot backs onto the greenbelt. It’s worth far more as land than as a house, and the buyer intends to tear it down.” I watched the words land. The house my mother had designed, the house Deborah had ruled like a queen for nine years, the house she’d tried to carve me out of, was already promised to a bulldozer. “The closing is in five weeks,” I continued. “Which means your thirty-day notice isn’t just me being dramatic. You genuinely have nowhere to stay past next month, because past next month, there won’t be a house standing there at all.” Deborah opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Priscilla, who had been silent in the back seat of the car, finally climbed out, and what she said next changed the whole conversation.