“Your sister has a family to protect.”
“So do I.”
My father pushed a pen toward me.
“Do the right thing.”
I closed the folder.
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Watch your tone.”
“This is my house. You are not taking it.”
My mother stood.
“Stop being hysterical. Melanie is already under enough pressure.”
Outside, Melanie finally looked up from her phone.
My father stepped around the coffee table.
“After everything this family has done for you, this is how you repay us?”
I almost laughed. They had paid Melanie’s bills, vacations, legal fees, fertility treatments, furniture, and now her mansion.
When I divorced, they told me adulthood meant solving my own problems.
I had worked sixty-hour weeks to keep my son stable. I had rebuilt my credit, saved every bonus, and bought that house without one dollar from them.
“You did not buy this house,” I said. “You have no claim to it. Leave.”
