Her head snapped toward him.
For the first time since I had known her, she looked genuinely stunned.
Then came anger.
“We have lived here for three years.
We have rights.”
“Patricia has explained the process to me,” I said.
“I am following it.”
The mention of Patricia’s name made her hesitate.
Only briefly.
Then she pushed the notice away.
“This is because of the party? You’re throwing your own son out because I asked you for one afternoon of privacy?”
“No.”
I placed my palms flat on the island.
“This is because you told me I was an inconvenience in my own house.
And because someone contacted my bank about my home equity account without my permission.”
The color left her face.
It happened so quickly that my son saw it too.
He turned toward her.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
Her answer came too fast.
He stared at her.
“What did you do?”
“I was looking into options.”
My heart began pounding, but I kept my voice level.
“What options?”
She crossed her arms.
“For the basement.
For us.
For improving the property.”
“You contacted my bank?”
“I made an inquiry.
That is not the same as stealing money.”
My son’s face hardened.
“You told me you dropped that idea.”
“I was trying to figure out whether it was even possible.”
“With my mother’s account?”
She looked at him as though he were being deliberately dense.
“We live here.
We have invested three years of our lives here.”
I almost laughed at the word invested.
Instead, I asked, “Did you go through my filing cabinet?”
She said nothing.
The silence answered more clearly than any confession could have.
My son stepped away from the island.
“You went through her private papers?”
“I needed information to ask questions.
Nobody took anything.”
“That is not the point.”
Now she was angry at him.
“Oh, please.
Your mother has paid for everything because she likes having control.
She acts generous, and then the second we start treating this place like a home, she reminds us whose name is on the paperwork.”
There it was.
Not gratitude.
Resentment.
