Brianna noticed the paper immediately.
“What is that?”
“I’ve thought about this arrangement. It is no longer working.”
Nate’s eyes moved toward the dining room, where the nursery furniture remained stacked.
“Dad.”
“I’m not finished.”
I placed the notice between them.
“You have sixty days to find another place. Your current rent remains the same during that period. The baby is due in ten weeks, which gives you time to move and settle before the birth.”
Brianna stared at the date.
“You’re giving us notice?”
“Yes.”
“I’m seven months pregnant.”
“I am aware.”
“You cannot expect me to move now.”
“I expect both of you to arrange housing for your family.”
“This is because of a piece of old furniture.”
“It is because you entered my workshop, moved family belongings, drilled into the ceiling, and made permanent plans without asking me.”
Nate picked up the notice.
“You’re choosing a garage over your grandchild.”
“No. I am choosing to stop pretending that allowing you to live here means surrendering control of my home.”
His face changed.
“You have all this space.”
“The existence of space does not make it unclaimed.”
“What are you going to do with the garage? Build little boxes while we struggle?”
“Yes,” I said. “I may build boxes. It is still mine.”
Brianna pushed back her chair.
“This is unbelievable.”
“What would be unbelievable is telling you to leave tomorrow. I am giving you two months.”
“The market is terrible.”
“Then begin looking today.”
“You don’t understand what rent costs.”
“I understand exactly what housing costs. I paid for this house for thirty-two years.”
Nate looked down at the notice.
“You really had a lawyer prepare this?”
“I asked a lawyer to confirm that I was handling it properly.”
“You called a lawyer on your own son.”
“You discussed tenant rights with Brianna’s father before speaking with me.”
His head lifted.
I had guessed.
The expression on his face confirmed it.
Brianna stood.
“My father said we should know our rights.”
“You should.”
“And you changed the garage locks.”
“Yes.”
“Like we’re strangers.”
“No. Like I have learned that a verbal boundary is not enough.”
She walked upstairs.
Nate remained at the table.
For a moment, I saw the child he had been. The boy who once sat beside me in the garage sanding a pine birdhouse, his tongue pressed against one corner of his mouth while he concentrated.
Then his expression closed.
“Sixty days,” he said.
“Sixty days.”
The following afternoon, Brianna called her mother in Seattle.
Her mother called her father.
Three days later, Darren Lewis arrived on a last-minute flight wearing a sport coat to a Tuesday morning conversation at someone else’s kitchen table.
I had met him twice before—at the wedding and during a Christmas dinner when he spent most of the evening discussing real estate prices.
He folded his hands in front of him.
“Thomas, I came because this situation could cause lasting harm to your relationship with your son.”
“I agree.”
He seemed encouraged.
“A baby is coming. Families need to pull together during difficult periods.”
“Are you planning to take them in?”
He blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“If they do not find an apartment, will they move to Seattle with you?”
“That would be complicated.”
“You have a guest room?”
“My wife uses it as a studio.”
“Nate uses one of mine as an office.”
Darren adjusted his cuff.
“Their jobs are here.”
“Then they need housing here.”
“You are in a stronger financial position.”
“You flew across the country on three days’ notice. You are not without resources.”
“That is beside the point.”
“No. It is the point. You came to tell me family should provide space. I am asking whether that principle applies to your space.”