Mom stepped closer.
“Your sister needs this, Grace.”
Then came the sentence that seemed to summarize my entire childhood.
“You don’t.”
I looked straight at her.
“Who told you I wasn’t renewing?”
Something almost triumphant appeared in her expression.
“I spoke with the landlord.”
My apartment suddenly felt completely silent.
Even Chloe paused her unpacking.
“You spoke to Mr. Henderson?”
“I handled it.”
“Handled what?”
“The transition.”
Mom smiled.
“I explained that you were moving out and Chloe would take over. He seemed perfectly reasonable.”
“You told my landlord I was leaving?”
“Landlords mainly care that the rent gets paid.”
She looked pleased.
Actually pleased.
As though speaking for me was simply part of being a helpful parent.
Dad wasn’t there, but I could practically hear his voice in my mind.
Keep the peace, Grace.
Don’t upset your mother.
Your sister is sensitive.
Be the bigger person.
I had spent twenty-eight years being the bigger person.
Nobody tells you that if you do that long enough, everyone else eventually expects you to keep making yourself smaller.
I set my coffee on the table.
Then glanced toward the front door.
A small security camera was mounted above the coat hooks.
Its red light blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Recording.
Mom followed my eyes.
Her expression shifted.
“What’s that?”
“A camera.”
“Inside your own apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I smiled.
And that was the first moment she looked uncertain.
Not because of the camera.
Because of me.
I wasn’t crying, shouting or pleading.
I was calm.
Chloe returned from my bedroom carrying my denim jacket.
“This closet is packed.”
She tossed the jacket toward me.
It struck my chest and dropped.
“Where exactly am I supposed to put my coats?”
Mom didn’t correct her.
She rarely did.
Instead, Mom gestured toward the jacket.
“Pick that up and start packing. We don’t have all night.”
