Chapter 8 - Choose Your Daughter
I drove to my mother’s house Saturday morning.
The same porch light had been crooked since I was seventeen.
The same chipped planter sat beside the steps.
Nothing about the place looked like collateral.
Inside, Mom had arranged papers on the kitchen table.
Ryan sat beside them.
Jessica stood at the sink.
I stopped in the doorway.
“You said he wouldn’t be here.”
Mom folded her hands.
“We need to settle this as a family.”
Ryan smiled.
“There she is. Colonel Carter.”
He put emphasis on the rank.
Jessica looked away.
“So you knew,” I said.
Ryan shrugged.
“Hard to miss the picture.”
“And you still called me a parasite.”
“People say things when they’re upset.”
“You weren’t upset. You thought you were in charge.”
His smile disappeared.
Mom pushed a document toward me.
“If you would just let them finish the existing bookings—”
“No.”
“Hear me out.”
“I have.”
“Emily, my house is involved.”
“I didn’t involve it.”
Ryan leaned forward.
“Nobody benefits if the business collapses.”
“You rented property you didn’t own.”
“You weren’t using it.”
It was remarkable how often he returned to that sentence.
As if an empty room created a legal right.
As if my absence erased me.
He tapped the document.
“Sign the management agreement. We clean up the misunderstanding. Your mother keeps her house.”
I didn’t touch the paper.
“You mean make the lie true after the fact.”
“I mean be practical.”
Jessica spoke from the sink.
“Ryan, stop.”
He turned.
“You wanted this fixed.”
“I didn’t say like this.”
Mom began crying.
“Emily, you can afford to help.”
There it was again.
My ability had become my obligation.
I pulled out a chair and sat across from her.
“I will help you understand the loan. I’ll pay for an independent attorney to advise you. I will not sign away my house to protect his income.”
Ryan pushed back from the table.
“Then whatever happens is on you.”
“No,” Jessica said.
We all looked at her.
Her face was pale, but her voice held.
“No. It’s on us.”
Ryan stared.
She wiped her hands on a towel she wasn’t holding anymore.
Then she looked at me.
“There’s something in your basement.”
My mother stopped crying.
Ryan moved toward her.
“Jessica.”
She flinched.
I stood.
“What’s in my basement?”
Jessica’s eyes filled.
“He’s been using the locked storage room.”
“For what?”
May you like
Ryan answered before she could.
“Watch what you say next.”
