She took a sip of champagne, then added, almost casually, “You’re always working anyway. You just need a place to sleep. The smallest room is enough for you.”
Her voice softened as if she were offering practical advice. “The rest of the space should be used effectively by the family. That’s the rational choice, don’t you think?”
I finally looked at her, slow, deliberate.
“You might want to check whether your definition of rational actually matches what’s written in the dictionary,” I said.
Kristen’s smile tightened.
“I’m not giving an inch,” I added. My voice was quiet, but it had weight.
My mother approached with a sigh heavy enough to perform on cue. She wore a pale cardigan and the expression she used when she wanted to appear gentle while still pushing a knife into your ribs.
“Denise,” she said, reaching for my shoulder.
Before her hand could land, I stepped aside smoothly, like dodging a slow-moving obstacle.
“Don’t be so stubborn,” she continued, adjusting without missing a beat. “Living alone in a space this big… that’s lonely. If Kristen lives with you, it’ll be lively. She can learn about business by staying close to you. It’s a win-win.”