“Good.”
I paid him.
That afternoon, someone rattled the front handle.
“Mom.”
David.
I opened the door but kept the screen closed.
He stood on the porch holding the old key.
“Why did you change the locks?”
“Because Sarah entered without permission.”
“She said you went through her purse.”
“To take back my key.”
“Mom, come on.”
“No.”
His frustration rose.
“This isn’t just your place.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“It’s family property.”
“No, David.”
I spoke very slowly.
“It is my property.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t think you know what you mean.”
“The whole property is part of the family.”
“Eventually, maybe. Depending on my estate plan.”
He looked surprised.
I continued.
“Not today.”
He looked past me into the cottage.
“Sarah is upset.”
“I’m sure.”
“She feels humiliated.”
“So did I when my son announced he was giving away my home at dinner.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“You stood up and said, ‘We’re giving the cottage to my wife.’”
“I was trying to make Sarah feel supported.”
“You did.”
“At your expense,” I added.
David looked away.
Then his voice softened.
“Mom, can we just reset?”
“Absolutely.”
Hope crossed his face.
“Good.”
I smiled.
“You and Sarah will begin paying your household expenses.”
His hope disappeared.
“What?”
“The main house utilities are now your responsibility.”
“Since when?”
“Since last night.”
He stared.
“Mom.”
“Internet too.”
“This is childish.”
“No.”
I leaned against the doorway.
“Children receive support because they depend on adults. You and Sarah are adults.”
His face tightened.
“We’re trying to save money.”
“I know.”
“You said we could.”
“Yes.”
“That was the agreement.”
“The agreement was that you could live there temporarily while saving for a home of your own.”
“We are saving.”
“Are you?”
Silence.
I remembered the chandelier Sarah bought for the foyer.
The new sectional.
A weekend in Scottsdale they had described as “business networking.”
The professional photography package for Sarah’s new brand.
I did not list them.
David knew.
He looked down.
“I need to talk to Sarah.”
“Good.”
Then I closed the door.
The first real bill arrived three weeks later.
I saw David walking back from the large brick mailbox near the driveway.
He flipped through envelopes.
Then stopped.
He read one twice.
Changed direction.
And came straight toward me.
“Mom.”
I was sitting on the cottage porch.
“Yes?”
He held up the envelope.
“The electric bill says it’s overdue.”
“Then pay it.”
“You always pay it.”
“Not anymore.”
His face changed.
“And the internet stopped working.”
“That usually happens when a bill isn’t paid.”
“Mom.”
I took a sip of coffee.
He looked at the paper.
“Five hundred and twelve dollars?”