Chapter 2

My parents had lived in my house for four years without paying rent.

That fact sounded ridiculous once I said it aloud.

Grandma Evelyn had owned the three-bedroom Craftsman on Hawthorne Street for almost forty years. Dad and Mom moved in during the last two years of her life to help with groceries, medications, and appointments. By the time she died, they had begun emotionally treating the property as theirs.

The estate, however, needed to sell.

Mom called me crying.

“We’re going to lose Grandma’s house.”

I was thirty then, and my boutique, Sarah & Co., had just finished its strongest year.

I bought the property because I loved my parents.

There was no trick.

No secret plan.

I told them they could remain without rent while Dad stabilized his business.

They would cover utilities and basic maintenance.

One year became two.

Two became four.

Meanwhile, I paid for everything substantial.

A water heater.

Roof work.

HVAC repairs.

Plumbing.

Exterior paint.

Property taxes.

Insurance.

When Mom decided the dining room walls felt “emotionally beige,” I even paid for the repainting.

Yet when I once asked whether I could host my employees’ holiday dinner in the backyard, Mom said, “Serena, this is our home, not an event space.”

Our.

That word had carried a lot of weight.

Thanksgiving was not the first time I had been demoted in the family hierarchy for being unmarried.

Three years earlier, Mom hosted Christmas brunch.

I arrived with nearly three hundred dollars’ worth of pastries from a bakery she specifically requested.

She took the boxes and kissed my cheek.

Then she pointed toward the kitchen.

“You can eat at the counter.”

“Why?”

“The dining table is really for families.”

Uncle Rick, divorced since the Clinton administration and responsible for nothing except a diabetic cat, sat at the main table.

I pointed this out.

Mom lowered her voice.

“Don’t embarrass your uncle.”

Another year, during a family trip to Bend, Mom reserved four bedrooms.

One for herself and Dad.

One for Melissa and Craig.

One for Melissa’s children.

One for Aunt Susan.

“Where am I sleeping?” I asked.

“The sofa.”

“It doesn’t fold out.”

“It’s long.”

“I’m five-nine.”

“Sleep diagonally.”

Melissa’s children spent both nights in their parents’ bedroom.

Their empty beds remained beautifully rested.

I slept diagonally.

I had spent years telling myself none of it mattered.

I had freedom, Mom said.

No husband to worry about.

No children.

No school schedules.

No daycare.

No responsibility.

Apparently my company existed in some magical universe where twelve salaries, two commercial leases, inventory financing, and quarterly taxes were hobbies.

Friday morning after Thanksgiving, Mom texted.

Had fun yesterday. Sorry seating was awkward. Love you.

I took a screenshot.

Melissa texted ten minutes later.

Mom says you’re mad lol.

I replied:

Not mad.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Reappeared.

You’re acting weird.

I did not answer.

Sunday, Dad called.

“Your mother thinks you’re upset.”

“I’m fine.”

“She didn’t mean anything by it.”

“She said I wasn’t an adult.”

Dad sighed.

“You know your mother.”

That sentence had excused half my childhood.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

He relaxed.

He thought the ceremony was complete.

Someone hurt me.

Dad explained that person’s personality.

I forgave them without anyone changing.

Normal life resumed.

Except this time, I started documenting.

Mortgage interest.

Taxes.

Insurance.

Repairs.

Landscaping.

Plumbing.

Roof work.

Appliances.

When I finished calculating four years of property expenses beyond mortgage principal, I stared at the number.

Then laughed.

Daniel sent a formal rental analysis.

Comparable houses in the neighborhood rented between $3,050 and $3,450.

His recommendation was $3,200.

Fair.

Professional.

Market-supported.

I signed the lease package.

Two weeks later, Mom called.

“What are you doing for my birthday?”

She was turning sixty-three.

According to Melissa, every birthday was now a milestone.

“Not sure.”

“Well, don’t go crazy.”

Translation: go crazy.

“I won’t.”

“I really don’t need anything.”

Translation: expensive.

“I know.”

“I’m already so blessed.”

Translation: extremely expensive.

Then she added casually, “Melissa thinks you’re planning something.”

I looked at Daniel’s email on my laptop.

HAWTHORNE RESIDENTS — FORMAL LEASE NOTICE.

“Does she?”

Mom giggled.

“I told her not to snoop.”

“Excellent advice.”

Her birthday party was December 14.

Forty people.

Catered food.

Champagne.

Gold balloons.

White flowers.

Mom had even sent a dress code to the family group chat: Elevated Festive.

Uncle Rick replied:

Does that mean pants?

She temporarily removed him from the chat.

Three days before the party, Daniel called.

“We’ll send the notice by certified courier.”

“Can you control the delivery time?”

“Within reason.”

“Saturday around four?”

Silence.

“Isn’t that your mother’s birthday?”

“Yes.”

“Serena.”

“What?”

“I’m a property manager, not a party planner.”

“I’m requesting legally documented delivery while the residents are confirmed to be home.”

Another pause.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m respecting procedure.”

“Of course you are.”

The party started at three.

I arrived at 3:20 carrying flowers.

Mom looked over my shoulder.

“Just flowers?”

“Happy birthday.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean—these are beautiful.”

She looked behind me again.

Melissa appeared.

“Where’s the surprise?”

Mom slapped her arm.

“Melissa!”

“What? You told me she always goes big.”

Mom turned pink.

I smiled.

“Would anyone like a drink?”

At 3:47, the doorbell rang.

Mom practically levitated.

It was a florist delivering roses from Aunt Susan.

At 4:02, a black SUV slowed outside.

Mom stopped talking mid-sentence.

It continued down the street.

Uncle Rick leaned toward me.

“Is she expecting the Pope?”

“I think she’s expecting horsepower.”

At 4:14, Mom began a speech.

“I just want everyone to know I don’t need things. Having my family here is enough.”

Melissa nodded solemnly while wearing several thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry.

The bell rang at 4:16.

My phone buzzed.

Daniel: Courier arriving now.

Mom saw me glance at the screen.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh.”

Melissa whispered, “Oh my God.”

I drank champagne.

Mom hurried to the front door.

A man in a navy jacket stood outside holding a thick cream envelope and a clipboard.

“Delivery for Diane and Robert Cole.”

Mom put one hand over her mouth.

She actually looked emotional.

“I need a signature,” the courier said.

“Of course you do.”

That almost killed me.

She signed.

Then turned toward the room, clutching the envelope.

People applauded.

Actually applauded.

Aunt Susan asked, “What is it?”

Mom looked at me.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I really should have.”

She misunderstood completely.

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Serena.”

Melissa grabbed her arm.

“Open it.”

Dad wandered in carrying a miniature quiche.

“What’s going on?”

“Serena got Mom something,” Melissa said.

Dad examined the envelope.

“What fits in that?”

“Divorce papers,” Rick offered.

Dad nearly inhaled the quiche.

Mom opened the envelope.

She pulled out the first page.

Her eyes moved.

The smile stayed for a second.

Then weakened.

Returned.

Disappeared.

Melissa leaned closer.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Forty people had just watched Mom receive a hand-delivered mystery envelope she thought might contain jewelry, a trip, or possibly the title to a luxury vehicle.

Nobody accepted “nothing.”

Aunt Susan asked, “Tickets?”

“No.”

“A gift certificate?”

“No.”

Rick called from the sofa, “Colonoscopy?”

“Rick!”

Dad approached.

“Diane, what is it?”

Mom folded the papers.

“Just paperwork.”

“What paperwork?”

“House stuff.”

Dad stopped chewing.

“What house stuff?”

Mom looked at me.

“Serena.”

“Yes?”

“Can we talk privately?”

Uncle Rick raised his glass.