“Brandon,” I said, careful with my tone the way you are with someone holding a glass near an expensive rug, “this is my house.”
Silence. Then a sigh, the kind of sigh he used when he was ten and I asked him to clean his room.
“Mom, you don’t understand,” he said. “We already booked their flights. They’re expecting to stay here.”
“I’m sure they are,” I replied. “But expecting doesn’t make it true.”
His voice sharpened. “Why are you making this difficult? You’ve got this huge house all to yourself. It’s selfish.”
Selfish. That word always appeared when Brandon wanted something I didn’t hand over fast enough. It was his favorite lever, because it came dressed as morality.
I kept my eyes on the horizon, where the sun was sinking and my old life was supposed to be sinking with it.
“Let’s talk about selfish,” I said. “I bought this house to relax. Not to run a hotel for Melissa’s family.”
Brandon’s tone shifted, and it startled me because it sounded like his father during our divorce negotiations—cold, controlled, and confident he had the stronger position.