The fork struck the plate so hard that the sharp clang echoed across the kitchen.
My mother leaned back in her chair and looked straight at me.
“You have forty-eight hours to move out.”
For a moment I thought I had heard her wrong.
“What?”
My mom sla:mmed her fork down at dinner and gave me 48 hours to get out—saying our burlington house was “my sister’s now,” while my dad stared at his plate and let it happen… after five years of me paying their mortgage, fixing the floors, buying the furniture, and holding that home together while my sister lived in california and couldn’t even return a call…
