When I arrived, my father, Douglas, sat stiffly in his usual chair, my mother, Sharon, wore her rehearsed smile, and my sister, Kimberly, leaned casually against the table in expensive clothes, scrolling through her phone as though she owned the room.
“You have a responsibility to this family,” my mother said calmly, her tone already settled on a conclusion I had not agreed to.
“Kimberly needs stability more than you do.”
I frowned and asked, “What does that have to do with my house,” though I already felt tension building in my chest.
My father answered without hesitation, “You will transfer ownership to your sister.”
For a second, I thought I misunderstood what he had said, but Kimberly laughed softly and brushed her hair back with a smug expression.
“Do not pretend you are shocked, you live alone and have too much space, while I have children and real needs, so obviously that house belongs with me.”
Anger rose slowly inside me, controlled yet undeniable, and I replied, “It makes more sense for the person who paid for it to live there.”
My mother’s voice hardened immediately as she said, “Stop being selfish because family is supposed to share.”