Brandon literally choked, milk spraying across the table.
“This is bull—” he coughed.
Sierra’s phone clattered to the table, avocado smear down the front of her new white crop top.
“What?!” she shrieked.
Tracy went sheet-white.
“You can’t be serious,” she hissed. “We are family.”
“Oh, I’m dead serious,” I said. “And speaking of family…”
I pulled out my phone.
“Let’s talk about that little conversation you had with Dad this morning. About sending me off to some out-of-state school ‘for my mental health.’”
I hit play.
Tracy’s own voice filled the kitchen.
“I’m worried about her mental health. All this anger she’s carrying around…”
Brandon’s eyes went wide. Sierra’s went wider. Tracy shot up from her chair, nearly knocking the mug over.
“You recorded me?” she screeched. “That’s illegal!”
“Actually,” I said calmly, “Massachusetts is a one-party consent state. I checked. Also? My house. My rules.”
Her nostrils flared.
“Mark!” she exclaimed, grabbing her phone. “We are not doing this here. I’m calling your father.”
Good. Because I’d texted him first thing that morning.
I’d sent him the recording. I’d asked him flat-out: Do you want me gone so she can have the house to herself?
His responses had been hesitant. Apologetic. Shocked, even. For the first time, he’d sounded like he understood just how far this had gone.
She hit call, slammed it on speaker.
“Tracy, I’m in a meeting,” he answered.
“You need to come home right now,” she snapped. “Your daughter is out of control. She’s demanding that we pay rent. In her house.”
There was a pause.
Then, miraculously, Dad’s voice came through steady and firm.
“Tracy,” he said, “we need to respect that it is her house. Maybe… maybe we should start looking for a new place.”
You could’ve heard a pin drop.
Brandon looked like someone had unplugged his brain mid-download. Sierra’s lower lip trembled. Tracy’s face went through the stages of grief in record time.
She hung up.
Then she turned to me, eyes blazing.
She stepped right into my space, jabbing a manicured finger at my chest.
“Listen here, you ungrateful little—” she spat. I won’t repeat the word, but it wasn’t fit for embroidery on a pillow. “I don’t care whose name is on the deed. This is my house. I’ve lived here for twelve years. No spoiled brat is going to kick me out. I will make your life hell.”
Perfect.
Because I’d been recording that, too.