The first page was a thirty-day notice to vacate. My son had lived on my second floor rent-free for nearly three years, supposedly saving for a house, and I had never once counted what that came to until the drive back from Oregon, with my husband’s scarf on the passenger seat, doing math I had spent three years refusing to do. The second page was the tally. The electric, the internet, the groceries, the school extras, the endless temporary expenses, the twenty-four-thousand-dollar lodge. The third page was the deed, with one name on it, mine, so there could be no confusion about whose house they were standing in while demanding I reimburse Bianca’s parents.
Preston read the notice twice. Then he did the thing he always does, which is to reach for the version where he is the wronged party. He said I was punishing his children. I told him his children had never wronged me, that they could visit whenever they liked, and that the notice was for the two adults who titled a group chat Operation Ditch Grandma and left me asleep in the snow on Christmas morning.
THE STORY CONTINUES ON THE NEXT PAGE… 👇👇👇
