“I want to end it,” I said. “I do not want a scene. I do not want a screaming match. I want this to
be the last weekend they ever assume anything about me.”
“Good,” Soraya said. “Then do not argue with them. Do not threaten them. Do not block them. Let them keep talking.”
“Why?”
“Because people who think they are entitled will put their entitlement in writing if you give them enough silence.”
By noon, I was sitting in her office with a folder of mortgage statements, screenshots, insurance bills, and the deed. Her office smelled like lemon polish and old paper. She read quickly, one finger moving down each page.
When she reached the Memorial Day screenshot, she stopped.
My mother’s words were right there.
“We Are At Arden’s Lake Place. She Does Not Know, So Do Not Post Yet.”
Soraya took off her glasses.
