Logan and Chloe’s apartment door was directly above mine.
A moment later, there was a knock at my door.
I peeked through the peephole and saw Chloe’s mother, Brenda, standing outside.
She was holding a box of chocolates and wearing a strained, fake smile.
I didn’t open the door.
I just stood there perfectly still until she finally gave up and walked away.
I was done entertaining their games.
Instead, I sat down at my computer and built a comprehensive spreadsheet.
Every single expense I had covered for the upstairs apartment over the last few years was meticulously itemized: roof repairs, the new HVAC system, landscaping—all things that increased the property value, but that they benefited from entirely rent-free.
I printed out the ledger and slipped it into a folder.
It was my insurance policy.
Suddenly, a familiar sound at the front door caught my attention.
It was almost eight in the evening when I heard a key turn in the main deadbolt of the shared foyer.
It was Logan.
But he didn’t head upstairs to his place.
He stopped in front of my apartment door and rattled the doorknob.
It was locked.
That was a first for him.
My door had always been wide open.
He had never learned to respect my privacy because I had never forced him to.
He knocked loudly against the wood.
“Mom, open up. We need to talk. This whole stunt with the bank accounts and the credit card is ridiculous. Chloe couldn’t even put down the deposit for our new couch today.”
He yelled through the door, his voice strained and frantic.
I walked up to the door but didn’t open it.
I spoke directly through the wood.
“Logan, I’ve said all I have to say. My financial support is officially over. You are both adults, and you make your own money.”
“But you can’t just cut us off like this,” he shouted angrily. “We counted on your share for the bills. Chloe already budgeted everything out.”
Right then, I heard Chloe’s heels clicking down the stairs.