had said, “Thanks, Mom,” as if gratitude erased exhaustion.
“When was the last time you came here and did not ask me for something?” I asked.
He frowned. “That’s not fair.”
“When was the last time you invited me to dinner instead of sending a menu?”
Brooke folded her arms. “This is emotional manipulation.”
I ignored her. “When was the last time you noticed I was limping?”
Daniel’s eyes dropped to my left knee.
Only for a second.
But he knew.
He had seen me pause halfway up the stairs. He had seen me steady myself against the banister after carrying laundry. He had seen the prescription bottle on the windowsill beside the sink.
“Mom,” he said, softer now, “you should have told me it was that bad.”
“I did. You said Brooke was under pressure.”
Brooke made a small sound of irritation. “Because I was.”
“Yes,” I said. “Everyone’s pressure was important here except mine.”
The room settled under those words.
Daniel rubbed his face. “Fine. We’ll hire help for some of it.”
“Will you?”
“Yes. But you can’t leave Sunday. Not now.”
“I can.”
His jaw tightened. “Where are you even going?”
That was when I opened the drawer beside the sink and took out the cream-colored envelope.
I had placed it there that morning because I knew Brooke would come eventually. She always came before she called. She liked the advantage of arriving unannounced, of finding me in slippers or with flour on my hands, of making her request before I had time to prepare an answer.
This time, I was prepared.
I laid the envelope on the counter between them.
“What is that?” Brooke asked.
“The part you should read before you decide how loudly you want to argue.”
Daniel picked it up first.
His expression changed before he reached the end of the first page.
“Mom,” he whispered, “what is this?”
“My new arrangement.”
Brooke snatched the paper from him and scanned it. Her color drained so quickly I thought she might faint.
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied.
The paper was a six-month lease agreement for my home, beginning January third. A visiting surgeon and her husband were taking the house while their own place was repaired after storm damage. They had excellent references, no children, no pets, and no desire to repaint anything coastal elegant.
More importantly, I had already bought a small condo in Beaufort.
One bedroom.
One bathroom.
No stairs.
No guest rooms.
Brooke read the page again as though the words might change out of pity.
“You’re renting the house?” Daniel asked.
“Leasing it.”
“For six months?”
“At least.”
“But where will you live?”
“In my condo.”
Brooke looked up sharply. “You bought a condo?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell us?” Daniel asked.
“You stopped listening when I told you smaller things.”
His face tightened as though I had slapped him. I had not meant to hurt him. I had meant to be honest. Sometimes those are the same thing.
Brooke pushed the paper back. “This is absurd. You cannot make a major family decision without discussing it with family.”
“With family,” I said, “or with the people who expected to inherit my labor along with my walls?”
Daniel looked away.
Brooke did not.
“This is punishment,” she said.
“No,”
