Then she sent another message saying I had no right to force a pregnant woman to move.
I saved both messages and forwarded them to my attorney.
I replied with one sentence.
“Discuss the housing arrangements with the homeowners.”
She called six more times.
I blocked her number.
That evening, Lily and I ate takeout noodles at the small table in our furnished apartment.
She had lined up her bunny, two dolls, and a plastic horse on the empty chair across from her.
“Are we going back to Grandma’s?” she asked.
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
I put down my fork.
Children do not ask questions only once when the answer determines whether they are safe.
They ask again and again, testing whether the truth changes when the room grows dark.
“We are not going back until I know nobody can lock you outside.”
She considered that.
“Can Aunt Sloan lock this door?”
“No.”
“Can Grandma?”
“No.”
“Only you?”
“Only me.
And when you’re older, you will have a key too.”
She nodded and returned to her noodles.
A few minutes later, she pushed the last dumpling onto my plate because she knew it was my favorite.
I had spent years believing love meant giving until nobody around me felt uncomfortable.
Lily, without understanding any of the money or paperwork, reminded me that love was also noticing who had less and making room for them.
At four thirty the next afternoon, Dad called from an unfamiliar number.
“We took the proposal to a lawyer,” he said.
“Good.”
“He says the terms are legitimate.”
“They are.”
There was a long pause.
“Your mother wants more time.”
“The lender may not give you more time.”
The bounced mortgage was not their only problem.
My regular transfers had covered part of the utilities and groceries too.
Without them, the checking account had dropped below the amount needed for the automatic draft.
Dad’s reduced hours made catching up nearly impossible, and Mom’s small income was already committed to other bills.
They had built their stability around money they insisted did not give me standing in the house.
Now that money was gone.
“Sloan says her boyfriend might help,” Dad said.
“Then you may not need my offer.”
“He can’t.”
I waited.
“We want to accept,” Dad whispered.
“Both of you?”
“Your mother is sitting here.”
“I need her answer.”
The phone shifted.
I heard fabric rustle and my mother’s uneven breathing.
“We accept,” she said.
She sounded as though she were swallowing something bitter.
“My attorney will contact yours.”
“Gina, before we sign anything, we need to discuss living arrangements.”
“The proposal already does.”
