My father, Thomas Donnelly, still carried the posture of authority long after reality had stopped matching it. Broad shoulders, a voice that sounded like a threat even when he was ordering coffee. My mother, Elaine, wore one of her church-lady cardigans and the expression she always used before saying something selfish in a tone meant to sound practical.
They sat in my living room, looked around at my furniture, my books, the framed school photos of my son in the hallway, and my father said, “This house makes the most sense.”
I honestly thought I’d missed part of the conversation. “What?”
My mother folded her hands. “Melanie’s new place has more land, but your layout works better for the children.”
Children. Hers. Not mine.
My father leaned forward. “We’re going to rearrange some things. You can rent for a while. It’s time to help your sister stabilize.”
I stared at him. No request. No embarrassment. No acknowledgment that I had watched them liquidate everything to lift Melanie into a life she couldn’t afford, only to decide weeks later that even that wasn’t enough.
“You gave her a house,” I said.