“Will you ever live with us again?”
“No.”
The answer came easily.
His expression fell.
I reached across the table and touched his hand.
“That isn’t a punishment.”
“I know.”
“I need my own home.”
He nodded.
“And I think you need yours.”
We sat there quietly.
Then he smiled.
“Are you buying the townhouse?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“You’ve been thinking about it for a week.”
“At seventy-three, that counts as impulse buying.”
Three days later, I made an offer.
Not because Daniel wanted me to.
Not because Rebecca encouraged me.
Not because Linda declared the patio “criminally perfect.”
I made the offer because I stood alone in the empty living room, sunlight crossing the floor, and could imagine my life there without needing anyone else to approve it.
The seller accepted.
I used savings for the down payment.
Daniel and Rebecca paid twenty thousand dollars toward the family loan.
Peter drew up a new agreement for the remaining sixty-five thousand.
Reasonable interest.
Monthly payments.
No surprises.
No children’s education money.
No emergency refinancing.
Everyone signed.
This time, we all read every page.
Rebecca tapped the final paragraph.
“Primary residence clause.”
“I noticed.”
“We’re not forgetting that one again.”
