That was when I finally understood something painful.
They didn’t miss me.
They missed what I provided.
The house.
The dinners.
The repairs.
The emergency loans.
The person who quietly fixed every problem, then accepted being treated like a guest.
Dad came to my apartment that evening.
“You should have warned us,” he said.
“I asked if you meant it.”
He looked away.
“That was anger.”
“No. That was honesty.”
He sat on the edge of the chair.
“Where are we supposed to go?”
“You have five weeks before closing. The realtor gave you the same notice she gave me.”
Panic filled his eyes.
Jason had nowhere suitable.
Diane’s sister refused to take them.
Then he said the one sentence that nearly pulled me backward.
“Your mother would be ashamed of you.”
I stared at him.
My mother had died twelve years earlier.
And suddenly I remembered the box of papers she’d left me.
