My mother gave me 24 hours to leave the house so my sister and her family could move. She even threatened to have me deported. The next morning, they threw my things on the lawn without hesitation.
So I left laughing, because I had prepared for all this a month in advance.
And they were about to discover a very uncomfortable truth.
My mother gave me the ultimatum as if she were reading a grocery list.
“You leave by tomorrow,” Linda Dawson said from the doorway, her arms folded, her wedding ring reflecting the porch light. Behind her were my younger sister, Kendra, and her husband, Mark, both with that studied expression of compassion people use when they’re about to justify something cruel. “Your sister and her family are moving here. If you don’t leave, we’ll have you deported.”
I glanced past them, toward the living room: Dad’s old leather chair, the framed photos on the mantelpiece, the rug I’d vacuumed every Saturday since his funeral. Most people would have protested. Would have cried. Would have begged.
I simply said, “Okay.”
Kendra blinked, clearly expecting a fight.
“Don’t try anything, Ava,” Mom added brusquely. “You have until tomorrow.”
After Dad died, I’d continued to run the house: mortgage payments, taxes, repairs, insurance. Mom called it “living off the family.” Kendra called it “squatting.” They’d conveniently forgotten who sat next to Dad in the hospital and who paid the bills when the overtime was up.
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