“For emergencies,” I said. “Not for opening my private mail.”
For the first time, my father looked unsure. Not remorseful, but aware that the neighbors really were watching and that my phone was aimed straight at them.
The movers stood beside the truck, awkward and quiet. Finally, one of them walked up to the porch and asked, “Ma’am, are we supposed to unload or not?”
“No,” I said before anyone else could speak. “No one here has permission to move anything into this house.”
Brooke spun around to face him. “Give us a minute.”
The mover shook his head. “We can’t place items without the homeowner’s approval.”
That was when Brooke lost control. She screamed that I had destroyed her life, that I had more than enough room, that I was punishing her for needing help. My mother started crying into the casserole dish. My father accused me of breaking the family apart over “a few rooms.”
I stayed in the doorway and let them put on the show.
By the time they finally left, Brooke’s dresser was still strapped inside the truck, the casserole had been abandoned on the porch, and my neighbors knew exactly whose house it was.
I thought that would be the end.
It was not.
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