For a brief moment, a sharp ringing filled my head, and I pressed my hand against my cheek while staring at her, unable to process what had just happened, yet the deeper wound came when my mother rushed toward her and wrapped her in a protective embrace as if she were the one harmed.
Everything had started three days after I received the keys to my new house in Austin, a modest yet beautiful place with a pale stone exterior, a small terrace, and a backyard where I had already imagined quiet evenings with lights and flowers.
My name alone was on the deed, and every inch of that house had been earned through long nights, demanding clients, endless weekends, and countless times I declined invitations because work always came first.
At thirty one years old, I had built my own real estate closing business from nothing while others spent freely on travel and luxury, yet I saved every dollar and never once asked anyone for help.
Perhaps that was why my family believed everything I had could still be taken from me whenever they decided it suited them.
My parents invited me over for what they called a family conversation, which in our household always meant someone expected something from me.