Chapter 10 - The Room They Planned to Take Next
I zoomed in on the floor plan.
The master suite was labeled with my name.
But beside it were three smaller notes.
POSSIBLE NURSERY.
FUTURE SHARED BATH ACCESS.
REASSESS IN 12 MONTHS.
I called Madison.
“What does ‘reassess’ mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
She sighed.
“Brianna wants another baby someday.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“Brianna is forty-one.”
“She said she might remarry.”
“What does that have to do with my bedroom?”
“Mom said if the family grew, we would rearrange.”
“We?”
“I’m telling you what she said.”
Mother had not planned to move in.
She had planned to reorganize my entire home indefinitely.
My house was not a refuge in her mind.
It was a family asset.
One I happened to pay for.
I drove to the storage unit that afternoon.
Their belongings filled nearly half the rented space.
Pink suitcase.
Boxes of clothes.
Chloe’s wax molds.
Brianna’s framed photographs.
Mother’s dishes.
Lamps.
Blankets.
A coffee maker.
They had moved enough into my house over several visits that I could finally see the scale.
This had never been a spontaneous Saturday decision.
They had been moving in piece by piece.
I opened one box labeled KITCHEN - MOM.
Inside were my mother’s favorite plates.
At the bottom lay an envelope.
It must have been packed accidentally.
My name was written across it.
I opened it because it was addressed to me.
Inside was a letter Mother had apparently intended to give me after the move.
Audrey,
I know this transition will feel difficult at first.
You are used to living alone and making decisions without considering a household.
That will need to change.
As the person with the strongest income, you will naturally carry more responsibility.
Your sisters will contribute in other ways until they become financially stable.
I will manage the house so you can focus on work.
We all have to sacrifice.
One day, you will thank me for bringing the family back together.
Love,
Mom.
I sat on the concrete floor of the storage unit.
She had written it like a policy announcement.
Not a request.
Not a conversation.
A transition.
My life had already been reassigned in her mind.
Then I noticed another envelope beneath the plates.
It wasn’t addressed to me.
It was addressed to a real estate agent.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Thank you for helping us estimate Audrey’s home.
We may consider selling in several years if the market improves.
May you like
I stopped breathing.
They had already discussed selling my house.
