Not emotionally mine. Not “family mine.” Legally mine. Financially mine. Every mortgage payment came from my checking account. Every repair bill, every property tax statement, every bag of mulch, every broken screen door latch, every gallon of paint.
I had bought that house because I needed one place in the world where nobody could walk in and tell me who I was supposed to be.
Then my mother replied under my father’s message.
“Fill The Fridge, Sweetheart. Aunt Liora Likes Fresh Flowers In The Main Bedroom. Do Not Make This Awkward.”
Within two minutes, thumbs-up reactions started popping up.
My cousin Hollis wrote, “Finally. That Place Needs Real Family Energy.”
My younger brother Keaton sent, “About Time You Shared Something.”
Someone asked if the Wi-Fi password was still the same.
I stared at that one longest.
I had never given any of them my Wi-Fi password.
The unit was quiet except for the machines. The kind of quiet that does not feel peaceful, just waiting. A patient in Room 9 coughed twice. My charge nurse walked past with a medication tray and said, “You good, Arden?”
