Jason audibly swallowed.
Vanessa straightened her spine, gripping the knife tighter.
“We’re storing some things in there. Like I said, we’re maximizing space.”
“Maximize space.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Vanessa, your clothes are in the closet. Your shoes are on the rack. My mother’s clothes are shoved into the back corner like dirty laundry. And my father’s things are boxed up in the guest room.”
I turned to my parents, who were still huddled in the corner. My mom looked terrified, her eyes wide and watery.
“Mom,” I asked, my voice softening just for her, “did you agree to move into the guest room?”
The room was dead silent. All eyes turned to the small woman on the loveseat. Martha looked at Vanessa, then at Jason. I saw the fear in her eyes. Not fear of me. Fear of causing a rift. Fear of losing access to her future grandchild.
“We… we just want to help,” Mom whispered, her voice trembling. “Vanessa said the baby needs the room near the bathroom and the stairs are dangerous for her right now.”
“The master bedroom is on the first floor, Mom,” I said gently. “The room with the ensuite bathroom that I built specifically so you wouldn’t have to climb stairs.”
I turned back to Vanessa.
“You moved my parents, who are in their seventies, upstairs to the guest room so you could have the master suite.”
Vanessa dropped the sweet hostess act. Her face hardened, her chin tilting up defensively.
“It’s temporary, Georgia. God, you’re making such a scene. I’m pregnant. I have swollen ankles. I need the bathtub. Martha and David barely use that big bathroom anyway. It’s wasted on them.”
“It’s their house,” I said, articulating every syllable.
“It’s family property,” Vanessa snapped, her voice rising. “Jason is their son. I’m carrying their grandchild. We are the future of this family. We need the support. We need the space. What are they going to do with four bedrooms? It’s selfish for them to rattle around in this big house while we’re crammed into a two-bedroom apartment.”
The word hung in the air.
Selfish.
She had just called my parents—who were currently eating cold food in the corner of the house they owned—selfish.
“Selfish,” I repeated, stepping closer. “My father is eating standing up. My mother is afraid to sit on her own furniture. And you call them selfish.”
“I’m hosting an event!” Vanessa yelled, throwing her hands up. “I’m trying to build a network. I’m trying to set up a life for your nephew. Why are you trying to ruin this? Jason, say something!”
She turned on her husband.
Jason looked like he wanted to dissolve into the floorboards. He looked at me, his eyes pleading.
“Georgia,” he mumbled, “let’s just talk about this later. Not in front of the guests.”
“No,” I said. “We’re talking about it now, because later implies there’s a negotiation, and I need to make it very clear that there isn’t one.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Vanessa scoffed, shaking her head at her friends, looking for validation. A few of the women murmured in agreement, shooting me dirty looks. To them, I was the jealous sister-in-law ruining a pregnant woman’s special day.
“She’s always been like this,” Vanessa told the crowd, creating her own narrative in real time. “Controlling. Jealous that she doesn’t have a family of her own. She thinks because she helped with the design, she owns the place.”
