“Mom. Dad.” I looked from one to the other. “Every cent of the down payment came from me. Every mortgage payment, every upgrade, every bill—me. This house is my sanctuary. And I won’t let anyone trample into it. Family or not.”
The word sanctuary made my mother’s mouth tighten, like I’d accused them of being a threat. My father’s face flushed so quickly the red climbed up his neck.
“Fine,” he snapped.
He reached into his pocket with trembling hands, pulled out his smartphone, and held it up like a judge’s gavel.
“If that’s how you want it,” he declared to the room at large, “then I won’t hold back anymore. The party is over. Everyone, leave immediately.”
A few people blinked, confused, still clutching plates and glasses.
Then he turned his glare back on me, lower voice, more venom. “Denise, brace yourself. My lawyer will be here shortly. I’ll straighten out the legal rights to this house.”
There it was. The threat wrapped in righteousness. The message to everyone listening: I was the unreasonable daughter, and he was the father forced to take action.