“How?” I demanded. “How was it different? I didn’t want to give away my future then, and I don’t want to give away my future now.”
Silence fell, heavy and judgmental.
I could feel their eyes on me, like I was the villain in their story.
“I’m not doing this,” I said, voice steady now. “Clara got herself into this mess. She can get herself out. If you want to help her so badly, sell your house and give her the money.”
My mother gasped like I’d cursed at her.
“This is the only house we have,” she said. “We’re old. We can’t start over like you can.”
I held her gaze.
“Then you understand exactly how I feel about my house,” I said.
I walked out.
Behind me, Clara called, “You’re making a huge mistake! These people don’t mess around!”
I turned back at the door.
“Neither do I,” I said.
I drove home feeling lighter and sick at the same time. Part of me wanted to vomit from the stress. Another part felt like I’d just pushed a boulder off my chest.
When I got home, I stood in my kitchen—the kitchen that caught morning light like gold—and stared at the place I’d built.
I knew, with a clarity that scared me, that they weren’t done.