‘We’re family,’ she counters, her voice going sugary-sweet. ‘You wouldn’t throw family out, would you?’
I hang up.
Not yet.
Instead, I take my son out for pizza. We linger. We laugh. I smile through the fire burning in my stomach. When we finally pull up to the house hours later, every light is on. Jack’s car is in the driveway, along with his parents’ beige sedan that smells like mothballs and guilt.
Inside, the air reeks of entitlement and cheap cologne. I walk in holding my son’s backpack, my hand still slightly sticky from pizza grease and lemonade. Jack’s mother is sprawled on my couch, remote in hand, flipping through Netflix like she owns it. His father is shirtless in the kitchen, drinking my almond milk straight from the carton.
My voice is calm. Too calm.
‘You need to leave.’
They both look at me like I’m the crazy one.
Jack ambles in from upstairs, scratching his head like he just woke up. ‘Babe, chill. They’re only staying until they find a place.’
‘That’s not what she said on the phone,’ I snap.
‘No. Temporary is a hotel. Temporary is a guest room. Not our bedroom. Not my bathtub. Not my closet.’
Jack sighs, like I’m the burden.
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