It was about the assumption beneath everything my mother had said.
She hardly needs all this space by herself.
Your family needs the room more.
She won’t make trouble.
I took the folder and walked to the door.
I didn’t knock.
It was my house.
The conversation stopped the moment I entered.
My brother’s wife stood near the kitchen doorway with one hand over her stomach.
The blonde woman held her clipboard against her chest.
My mother was in the center of the living room.
For one strange second, she looked less like an intruder than someone caught borrowing a sweater without asking.
Then her expression hardened.
“What are you doing here?”
I almost admired the question.
“I live here.”
My brother’s wife blinked.
The blonde woman looked from me to my mother.
My mother said, “Don’t start.”
I placed the folder on the dining table.
“Start what?”
“Making a scene.”
I looked around the room.
My room.
The warm wooden lamp beside the couch.
The shelves I had mounted.
The paint I’d chosen.
Three people standing inside a place none of them had been invited into.
“I wasn’t the one giving tours.”
My brother’s wife stared at me.
“You own this?”
Before I could answer, my mother cut in.
“She bought it recently.
She hasn’t even properly moved in.”
I turned toward her.
That was another revelation.
Not only did she know the house was mine.
She knew enough to know when I’d bought it and how much time I’d been spending there.
“How long have you known?”
My mother crossed her arms.
“That isn’t important.”
“It is to me.”
“You hide everything.
What did you expect?”
There it was.
Somehow, my secrecy had become the offense.
The blonde woman cleared her throat softly.
“I think I should leave.”
“Please stay,” I said.
My mother shot me a look.
I continued, “You asked about the legal owner.
You should get an answer before you go.”
I opened the folder.
The paper inside looked almost insultingly ordinary.
White sheets.
Black print.
