I was ready. I’d been ready for three weeks, quietly building the case, quietly preparing myself for exactly this conversation.
That Sunday, sitting on my freshly stained floor, watching Deloris settle into my couch with her usual satisfied smile. I finally understood I wasn’t just angry about coffee rings anymore.
I was angry about eleven years of being made to feel like a guest in my own home. Without ever knowing there was a legal document quietly justifying that feeling the whole time.
Caleb got home at six that evening.
I’d texted him earlier that afternoon, just one line: “We need to talk tonight. It’s important.” He’d texted back immediately. Worried, asking if everything was alright with the kids. I told him everyone was fine, that this was about something else entirely, and left it at that. Wanting to explain everything in person rather than through fragmented text messages.
Deloris was still there, naturally, having invited herself to stay for dinner too. Already rifling through my refrigerator like she was deciding what she’d allow us to eat.
“We need to talk,” Caleb said. Setting his bag down by the door. “All three of us. At the table.”
Deloris’s expression flickered, just slightly, the practiced innocence wavering for half a second before resetting.
