“And?”
“She couldn’t afford one.”
I understood.
“My father had used the money to pay off their mortgage.”
“Yes.”
“Did she stay?”
“Until she died.”
Rebecca stared at the paper.
“She never complained. But every time my parents argued, she went to her bedroom and shut the door because she said it wasn’t her house.”
Her voice softened.
“I was fourteen when she moved in. I remember thinking that being grateful looked an awful lot like being quiet.”
I looked around my apartment.
The blue armchair.
The turquoise scarf.
My ridiculous pottery-class schedule attached to the wall.
“Why didn’t you tell me this four years ago?”
“I thought making sure the paperwork was right was enough.”
“And then?”
“Then life happened.”
She smiled sadly.
“We became exactly the kind of family I thought I was protecting you from.”
