I tried to convince myself it must have been a mistake, an oversight. But when I saw the fireworks reflected in the water, I understood the truth: I was no longer part of the circle.
Two days later, the silence was broken.
It was with a bill.
The email arrived at nine in the morning. Subject:
“Re: Property Maintenance Costs”
Sender: Evan.
I felt that familiar knot in my chest, the automatic reflex of a worried mother. I opened the message.
“Hi Mom, we hope you’re doing well. With the holiday chaos, we haven’t had a chance to write sooner. We’re sending you a summary of the recent costs related to the house, which is still legally in your name. Your share totals $31,074. Please let us know how you’d like to proceed.”
I read it three times.
Not a word about Thanksgiving.
Not a picture of the kids.
Just a cold, professional tone, as if I were some distant investor.
I opened the attachment.
Luxury decorative paint.
Complete replacement of the master bathroom with Italian marble.
Custom-made crystal lighting.
Wine cellar integrated into the kitchen.
That wasn’t maintenance.
It was ostentation.
For almost ten years they had lived there rent-free. I never asked for anything. I never demanded an accounting. And now, they expected a pensioner to fund their magazine-worthy lifestyle.
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