No one knew except my realtor, my lender, and my best friend Olivia.
That had been the plan until I came back from a hardware store trip on a Thursday evening and saw my parents’ SUV sitting in the driveway.
For one second, I thought someone must have died.
Then I spotted my sister, Brooke, standing inside my living room with her shoes planted on my brand-new rug, holding a Starbucks coffee and slowly turning around as if she were walking through a staged open house. My mother was pulling open kitchen cabinets. My father was studying the hallway like he was already calculating what could fit there. None of them looked ashamed. They looked pleased.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, still carrying a bag of curtain rods and a box of cabinet pulls.
Brooke smiled as though I had shown up late to a gathering she had organized. “Mom found the address from the closing mail you left at your apartment.”
My stomach sank.
I had forwarded nearly all my mail, but one envelope from the title company had been sent to my old apartment, where my mother still had a spare key because I had been foolish enough to think she would only use it for emergencies.
My mother, Elaine, turned away from the cabinets with bright, offended enthusiasm. “So this is where all your money has been going. You bought a whole house and didn’t tell your own family?”
“I didn’t tell you because this is my home,” I said. “Not a family project.”
My father, Ron, scowled. “Don’t talk to your mother like that. We’re just surprised.”
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