Brandon’s eyes went wide. Sierra’s went wider. Tracy shot up from her chair, nearly knocking the mug over.
“You recorded me?” she screeched. “That’s illegal!”
“Actually,” I said calmly, “Massachusetts is a one-party consent state. I checked. Also? My house. My rules.”
Her nostrils flared.
“Mark!” she exclaimed, grabbing her phone. “We are not doing this here. I’m calling your father.”
Good. Because I’d texted him first thing that morning.
I’d sent him the recording. I’d asked him flat-out: Do you want me gone so she can have the house to herself?
His responses had been hesitant. Apologetic. Shocked, even. For the first time, he’d sounded like he understood just how far this had gone.
She hit call, slammed it on speaker.
“Tracy, I’m in a meeting,” he answered.
“You need to come home right now,” she snapped. “Your daughter is out of control. She’s demanding that we pay rent. In her house.”
There was a pause.
Then, miraculously, Dad’s voice came through steady and firm.
“Tracy,” he said, “we need to respect that it is her house. Maybe… maybe we should start looking for a new place.”
You could’ve heard a pin drop.