If she had—if she’d had the faintest clue I was the one legally holding the keys—she would’ve manipulated the situation six ways from Sunday. Gotten her name on the deed. Talked my dad into refinancing. Something.
Instead, she kept living like she had unlimited lives in a house she didn’t own.
And I kept living like the unpaid servant.
By the time I was twenty-two, here was the state of things: