Then I went to the garage, shut the door, and started making calls.
Not panicked calls.
Strategic ones.
Because if Brandon wanted to play power games in my retirement, he was going to learn something he should’ve learned when he was a child.
I don’t lose in my own house.
Part 2
They arrived at seven in the morning like they were invading a small country.
I woke to car doors slamming and voices carrying across the salt air, and when I looked out the upstairs window I saw a caravan of rental SUVs lined up along my driveway. People poured out like water: suitcases, coolers, beach chairs, tote bags, a couple of teenagers already holding phones like they were filming content.
Melissa stood in the center of it all, directing traffic with two hands and a sharp voice, pointing toward different entrances like she’d been issued a permit. Her parents emerged first—Patricia and Gary—both dressed in aggressively casual vacation clothing. Linen. Sunglasses. Smiles that said, We’re here to be catered to.
No one knocked.
They moved like people who’d been told this was their space.