She said it matter-of-factly.
“We’re going to move you upstairs.”
I had been married, widowed, raised a child, managed a household, buried people I loved, and dealt with all kinds of difficult personalities in my life.
But I can still say with confidence that I had rarely encountered that level of audacity.
“Put the tape measure away, Harper.”
She sighed.
“Georgia, be reasonable. The stairs are going to be difficult for me once the baby comes. You don’t need all this space by yourself.”
I stepped farther into my room.
“I need exactly the amount of space I earned by paying the mortgage for thirty years.”
Her face changed.
“You are not taking my bedroom,” I continued. “You are not moving my furniture. And if living upstairs doesn’t work for you, you and David should find a ground-floor apartment.”
“David already agreed with me.”
There it was again.
As though David’s agreement transferred ownership.
“David doesn’t own this house.”
Harper shoved the tape measure into her bag and stormed out.
I called a locksmith.
By three o’clock that afternoon, my bedroom door had a heavy-duty deadbolt.
When I left home, I locked it.
At night, I locked it.
I never imagined I would need a lock on my bedroom door in my own house, but I had also never imagined somebody would walk into it and start measuring where to put a crib.
No more maid service
Before all this started, I had gradually become responsible for their laundry too.
It began innocently.
I would wash towels and notice some of David’s shirts, so I threw them into the machine.
Soon Harper started leaving baskets outside the laundry room.
No request.
No thank-you.
Just a basket.
I was also cooking dinner four nights a week. I planned the meals, bought the groceries, cooked, set the table, and cleaned while they sat in the living room.
Once I noticed the pattern, I couldn’t unsee it.
So on Tuesday evening, I cooked one piece of salmon.
At six o’clock, right on schedule, David and Harper came downstairs.
The kitchen was spotless.
The stove was cold.
I was sitting at the island eating.
David stopped.
“Where’s dinner?”
I looked at my plate.
“Right here.”
He stared at me.
“I decided to scale back. Cooking for three every night is exhausting.”
Harper opened the refrigerator.
“You could have warned us. We don’t have anything ready.”
“There’s a pizza place down the street.”
The next morning, a laundry basket appeared in the hallway outside my door.
It was overflowing with their clothes.
I stepped over it.
Hours later Harper came downstairs and nearly tripped over the same basket.
“Why didn’t you put this in the wash?”