Chapter 4: The Cost of Staying Quiet
I had managed one quick picture of the form before Mom snatched it away. In the hallway, with Gemma’s bunny tucked under her arm and Jo waiting beside us, I opened the photo and enlarged it until the printed words went soft around the edges.
The page still showed enough: my name under Grantor, Lauren’s under Grantee.
I knew Mara from the title office that had handled the deed years ago. I called her from the stairwell, away from Gemma’s worried little eyes.
“I’m not asking you to tell me what to do,” I said when she answered. “Can you explain what the words on this page mean?”
She studied the picture while I listened to the faint office clatter on her end.
“As it’s written here, you’d be the one giving the property interest to Lauren,” she said. “If you signed it, you’d be agreeing to that transfer. I can’t tell you anything about the rest of the document from one page.”
My grip tightened on the phone. The answer was plain, but hearing it from someone outside my family made the room inside me go cold.
“Thank you,” I said.
I ended the call before I could ask her to make it sound less real. Then I put the phone away, took Gemma from Jo, and carried her down to the car. She leaned against my shoulder, warm and heavy, while I tried not to look back at the apartment windows.
The message arrived before we reached the motel.
Mom had started a family group chat. I saw the first line at a red light, then pulled into a gas station lot to read the rest.
Brenda: Paige has made it clear she thinks she can take our home away. Your father and I never thought she would do this to us.
The replies came fast. An uncle I hadn’t spoken to in months said Mom and Dad deserved respect. A cousin asked how I could throw my own parents out after everything they’d done for me.
Gemma hummed to herself in the back seat, rubbing one plush ear between her fingers. I stared at the screen until the words doubled.
Mom hadn’t said I had asked them to leave. She had made the threat for me and then invited everyone to react to it.
I typed a reply, erased it, and started again. The first version was a list of every time I had swallowed an insult to keep a visit peaceful. The next was longer and sharper.
I deleted both.
Then I sent one message.
Paige: The apartment deed was recorded in my name on May 6, 2019. I have not asked Mom or Dad to leave. I’m willing to discuss a fair living arrangement directly, but please don’t describe that conversation as something that hasn’t happened.
The chat went quiet for a few seconds. Then Mom replied with a single line.
Brenda: You always know how to make yourself sound reasonable.
I didn’t answer. I turned off the phone and watched Gemma’s reflection in the rearview mirror, her lashes drooping as the streetlights slid over her face.
At the motel, Jo helped me carry our bags upstairs. Gemma wanted her shoes off, then wanted them back on, then forgot what she’d wanted and asked for crackers. I gave her crackers. When the room settled around us, my phone buzzed again.
Dad: Can we talk outside? Just you and me.
I looked at Gemma, now sitting cross-legged on the bed beside Jo, lining up crackers along the blanket.
Jo met my eyes.
“Go,” she said. “I’m right here.”
Richard was waiting near the apartment building’s side entrance when I returned. He stood under the narrow awning with his hands clasped in front of him. The day had turned raw and damp; a gust pushed cold air under my coat.
“I’m not going back upstairs,” I said.
“I know.”
He glanced toward the street, then down at his hands. Behind him, the apartment windows glowed yellow. I had spent so many weekends under that light that I used to think it meant I belonged there.
“Mom told them I was trying to make you homeless,” I said.
“I heard.”
“And you didn’t correct her.”
His mouth opened. Nothing came out. The silence had been his most dependable answer for as long as I could remember, but this time he seemed to hear it too.
“I should have,” he said.
It wasn’t enough. It was more than he had said before.
“Why is she telling people I’m throwing you out? I said I’d discuss a fair arrangement.”
“Because she wants them to think you’re cruel before they ask what you actually said.”
I held his gaze. “And the apartment?”
His shoulders rose and fell with one shallow breath.
“Your mother talks about it like Lauren already owns it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dad.”
He looked toward the lit windows again. His face seemed older in the damp light, but not softer. Just tired in a way he had chosen not to show me until now.
“She’s been saying it’s going to be Lauren’s,” he said. “That it’s where Lauren will end up.”
“How long has she been saying that?”
He pressed his lips together.
“Did Mom promise it to her?”
Richard flinched—not away from me, exactly, but as if the question had touched something he’d been keeping covered.
“I heard your mother promise Lauren the apartment once,” he said.
The words landed between us with the weight of a door unlocking.
“When?” I asked.
May you like
He looked down at his clasped hands.
“I can’t tell you that.”
