“Well, Robert,” Morris said, stepping inside, voice carrying with the practiced confidence of someone used to rooms listening. “Calling me out on your daughter’s birthday night… this doesn’t sound like a peaceful situation.”
He set his briefcase down, glanced briefly at the relatives gathered in my living room, then let his gaze land on me. It was cold, appraising, as if I were a misbehaving client’s problem.
My father rushed to him, relief spilling out of him like a child running to a teacher. “You came, Morris.”
He clapped Morris on the shoulder as if sealing an alliance.
“As you can see,” my father said loudly, “my daughter is behaving in an utterly inhumane way toward her own family. I want you to clarify the ownership of this house and proceed with the legal steps necessary so the family can rightfully use it.”
Morris’s eyes flicked over me, then back to my father. He nodded slowly, the theatrical nod of a man about to deliver a lecture.