But Ryan stood there casually drinking a craft beer, and his parents were already seated at the table like they belonged there. His mother, Linda, had spent the past week walking through the house picking out walls she wanted to repaint, choosing rooms, deciding where her decorations would go. His father, Frank, was talking about turning the backyard into a “proper” barbecue area—as if I hadn’t paid for every inch of that place myself.
“Ryan,” I said, forcing a small smile, “it’s done. I made the last payment. I’m finally free from carrying this alone.”
He didn’t congratulate me. He took my phone, glanced at the email, then looked at me with a cold expression that made my stomach drop.
“Good,” he said. “Then I don’t need you here anymore. My parents are moving in. You’re leaving today.”
