Chapter 2 - NO MORE APOLOGIES
The party died in less than ten minutes.
Nobody officially announced they were leaving.
They just started disappearing.
Carl gave me an awkward hug.
Brenda squeezed my hand.
“Call me tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
She was right.
But I wasn’t crying.
That surprised me.
For months, every argument with Harrison had left me shaken.
Not this time.
I felt clear.
Almost calm.
Sloan stormed into the house carrying the burned handbag like an injured child.
Harrison followed her.
I stayed outside.
I picked up the cake plate.
Scraped frosting from the patio.
Collected the candles one by one.
Candle number sixty-four was under Sloan’s chair.
Number sixty-five had landed beside the fire pit.
I laughed when I found it.
Not because anything was funny.
Because something inside me had finally snapped into place.
That night, Harrison knocked on my bedroom door.
Three hard knocks.
“Mom.”
I opened it halfway.
He crossed his arms.
“Sloan is devastated.”
“Then she should stay away from fire pits.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
He stared at me.
“You destroyed a two-thousand-five-hundred-dollar handbag.”
“And she destroyed my birthday cake.”
“A cake is not the same thing.”
I felt something rise inside me.
“Why not?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Why is her handbag important because it cost money, but something Brenda spent hours making for me doesn’t matter?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Mom, just apologize.”
“No.”
He went still.
I don’t think Harrison had heard me say that word to him in years.
“No?”
“No.”
“Sloan expects reimbursement.”
I laughed once.
That made him angry.
“She has every right to expect you to replace it.”
“And I expect her to replace my cake.”
“Mom, seriously?”
“Very seriously.”
He stepped closer.
“You’re acting crazy.”
I looked directly at him.
“Then maybe crazy people shouldn’t provide free housing.”
His expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you and your wife have been living here for eleven months. Rent-free.”
“We contribute.”
“You bought paper towels twice.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No. What’s not fair is me paying the mortgage, utilities, groceries, insurance, Internet, dog food, and half of Sloan’s little online shopping deliveries while being treated like an unwanted guest in my own house.”
His jaw tightened.
“She’s going through a hard time.”
“So am I.”
Silence.
That seemed to surprise him even more than my refusal.
For years, I had been the reliable one.
The mother who managed everything.
The mother who didn’t complain.
The mother who fixed problems before anyone else even noticed them.
Harrison stared at me.
“You’ve changed.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I think I’m finally changing back.”
He left without saying good night.
At five forty the next morning, I woke before my alarm.
I made coffee.
Sat at the kitchen table.
And wrote two words on a yellow legal pad.
MY HOUSE.
Then I started making a list.
Guest bedroom.
Guest bathroom.
Hall closet.
Laundry cabinets.
Kitchen pantry.
Garage shelves.
Office closet.
Sloan had belongings in all of them.
By seven o’clock, I had three laundry baskets filled with her things.
At seven fifteen, she walked into the kitchen wearing my blue robe.
She stopped.
“What is this?”
“Good morning.”
She looked at the baskets.
“Why is my stuff in there?”
“Because your things belong in the room you’re using.”
She stared at me.
“I use those cabinets.”
“Not anymore.”
“What?”
I pointed toward the hallway.
“You have the guest bedroom and guest bathroom. Everything else is shared space.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You can’t just move my things.”
“I just did.”
She gave a short laugh.
“You’re being petty.”
“Maybe.”
I held out my hand.
“Now give me my robe.”
She looked down.
Then back at me.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“My robe.”
She ripped it off, revealing a tank top and sleep shorts.
She threw it at me.
“Happy?”
I caught it.
“Getting there.”
She stormed upstairs.
Thirty seconds later, I heard her bedroom door slam.
Then Harrison came running down.
“What did you do?”
I took a sip of coffee.
“Set a boundary.”
“Mom—”
“And there’s one more thing.”
I slid a piece of paper across the table.
His eyes dropped to it.
The color drained slightly from his face.
May you like
Because at the top of the page I had written:
MOVE-OUT DATE.
