Nobody said another word. Mom grabbed her purse, Dad lifted Mason, and Megan walked out without looking at the mess she’d made. I cleaned tomato sauce off my cabinet until almost eleven. Then my phone buzzed with Grant’s text. Everything is set. Your parents owe you $265,000 in back rent. Activate the plan? I read it twice and pressed send.

Three hours later, I had eighty-seven missed calls. Mom. Dad. Megan. Aunt Carol. Two cousins I hadn’t spoken to since Christmas. I didn’t answer any of them. Then, at 2:06 a.m., a text came through from Megan, all lowercase, no punctuation, nothing like the woman who had thrown a plate at my head. mom says the house is yours. tell me she’s lying