Nothing ever settled.

Mom started acting as though my job made me filthy.

She sprayed air freshener whenever I walked inside.

She joked about my “hazard pay perfume.”

And now she had locked me outside and decided the garage was good enough for the daughter whose paycheck kept the house running.

I looked at the plate waiting on the workbench.

Cold rice.

One dry chicken thigh.

A plastic fork.

Beside it sat an envelope from the mortgage company addressed to me.

Final refinance confirmation.

Mom must have taken it from the mailbox and forgotten to hide it.

I opened it beneath the garage light.

Inside was documentation my real estate attorney had sent two weeks earlier confirming that I had full legal authority to sell the property because every payment, deed transfer, and rescue loan had been completed in my name.

Then my phone buzzed.

Grace, my attorney.

Buyer is ready. Cash offer expires Saturday morning. Are you sure?