Lillian looked away.
“The garage apartment, rentree.”
“So, I’d lose hundreds of thousands in equity and become your tenant. That was the plan?”
“It’s not like you need all this space. You don’t have kids. You’re not married. This is wasted on you.”
The casual cruelty of it stole my breath.
My own sister genuinely believed my life, my accomplishments, my home—all of it mattered less than her needs because she’d reproduced.
“Get out,” I said quietly.
“Jade—”
“Get out of my house now.”
She left, and I locked the door behind her.
Through the window, I watched her sit in her car for 10 minutes, phone pressed to her ear, probably calling Dad or Kenneth or Mom to complain about my unreasonableness.
That night, the band had practice.
The noise was glorious and terrible, a sonic assault that I felt in my bones.
I sat on the back patio with a glass of wine, the chickens settling into their coupe for the night, the dogs sprawled around me in the grass. My phone buzzed constantly with texts and calls that I ignored.
Tuesday brought a visit from Mom. She arrived at noon with a container of cookies, her signature peace offering.
I let her in, but didn’t offer coffee.
“Your father is very upset,” she began, settling on the couch despite not being invited to sit.
“So am I.”
“He’s only trying to help Lillian. You know how hard it’s been for them financially.”
I laughed. An ugly sound.
“Hard financially? Kenneth has a trust fund. Lillian drives a brand-new SUV. They take the twins to Disneyland twice a year. Meanwhile, I’ve been working 60-hour weeks to afford this place.”
Mom’s expression tightened.
“That’s not fair. Lillian has children to support. Her expenses are different.”
“Her expenses are choices. I chose to buy a house. She chose to have kids. Both are valid choices, but one doesn’t automatically trump the other.”
“Family is supposed to support each other.”
“You’re right. Family should support each other. So why is it always me supporting Lillian and never the other way around? When was the last time anyone in this family put my needs first?”
Mom stood abruptly.
“I didn’t raise you to be selfish.”
“You raised me to be invisible. There’s a difference.”
She left the cookies on the coffee table, a passive-aggressive gesture that said more than words.
After she was gone, I fed them to the dogs, who appreciated them more than I would have.
Wednesday, the money for my bonus came through.
I drove to the bank and withdrew a cashier’s check for $11,000, made out to Gerald Morrison. Then I went to Dexter’s office, where he had the quick claim deed paperwork ready and waiting.
I called Dad from Dexter’s conference room, putting the phone on speaker.
“I have your money,” I said without preamble. “All $11,000, including the interest we agreed on in our loan contract. I’m ready to close out the loan. In exchange, you sign the quick claim deed removing your name from my property title.”
“I’m not signing anything until you get rid of those animals and stop this ridiculous game.”