“You would throw your own mother out in the middle of the night?”
“I didn’t throw you out.”
“You took my door!”
“You took ours first.”
“That was a joke!”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“You’re being cruel.”
“No. I’m being consistent.”
Grace stared at him.
Then laughed bitterly.
“Consistent.”
She turned to me.
“You must be proud.”
I said nothing.
Not because I had nothing to say.
Because Harold needed to say this himself.
For once, he was.
Grace began packing angrily.
And because Grace normally folded everything perfectly, the fact that she was throwing clothes into the suitcase told me exactly how furious she was.
Harold lifted the guest-room door.
“I’ll reinstall this tomorrow.”
Grace spun around.
“So I’m expected to sleep exposed?”
Harold simply stared at her.
The irony was so obvious that even Grace seemed to hear it.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“You can change in our bathroom,” Harold said. “That door locks.”
Her face turned even redder.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
I accidentally made a choking sound.
Grace looked at me.
“You do.”
“I’m trying extremely hard not to.”
“You’ve wanted this from the beginning.”
“Wanted what?”
“To turn my son against me.”
Something in my chest went cold.
“Grace, I wanted you to knock.”
“That’s how it starts.”
“How what starts?”
“Separation.”
