Now she looked at me.
“My son has nothing to hide from me.”
For several seconds, I genuinely couldn’t think of a response.
“This is my bedroom too.”
“And this is my son’s house.”
“You took our door off?”
Actually, Harold and I had bought the house together.
Both names were on the mortgage.
Both names were on the deed.
And both names received junk mail addressed to people who had apparently lived there in 2004.
Both names were on the deed.
But arguing property records with a woman who had just removed a bedroom door felt like starting three miles behind the actual problem.
Grace had been staying with us because a pipe burst in her apartment.
Ten days.
That was the estimate.
Grace had been staying with us because a pipe burst in her apartment.
On day one, I’d been sympathetic.
By day two, I was checking the calendar.
Grace didn’t knock.
The first time she walked into our bedroom, I was changing clothes.
“Oh!”
She didn’t leave.
Grace didn’t knock.
She walked to Harold’s nightstand.
“I need a charger.”
“Grace, I’m changing.”
“I’ve seen underwear before.”
“Mine?”
That finally got her to turn around.
