I let the silence hold because, for the first time in nine years, they were waiting for me to speak. “The Oakridge house,” I said, “the one you just received a thirty-day notice for? Two weeks ago, before any of this, I signed a contract to sell it.” Deborah’s face went white. My father crushed the folder in his hand. “Sell it?” he whispered. “To who?”

“To a developer,” I said. “The lot backs onto the greenbelt. It’s worth more as land, and the buyer plans to tear the house down.” The words landed heavily. Deborah had spent nine years ruling the home my mother left me, while Priscilla had recently decided my mother’s bedroom would make the perfect space for her influencer content. “The closing is in five weeks,” I continued. “And after that, there won’t be a house left to move back into.” Priscilla finally stepped forward and stared at me.

“But that’s our home,” she said.

And that was when I told her the truth.