Loretta recovered fast, the way practiced people do. “There’s no need for attorneys,” she said, her smile returning like a mask sliding back into place. “This is a family matter.” But Elliot was still staring at me, the ground gone from under him, because he had never told his mother the one thing that made her whole scheme impossible. I had not merely helped buy the apartment. My name was on the title, right beside his, recorded the day of closing.

“Loretta,” I said, setting my coffee down with deliberate calm, “you can’t charge rent on a property I co-own. And there is no loan, because I have every payment record, every wire, every signature from the purchase.” Her hands, folded so neatly a moment ago, tightened. Elliot turned to her slowly. “Mom,” he said, his voice thin, “what loan? You told me you gave us the down payment as a gift.” The kitchen went so silent I could hear the coffee maker tick as it cooled.