His voice was deep and authoritative. It was the voice he used when I was a teenager and had missed curfew.
I did not sit in the wooden chair.
I walked over to the dining table, pulled out a heavy chair, and sat there. I needed a table between us. I needed a barrier.
“We need to have a serious talk,” my father began.
He leaned forward.
“This behavior of yours has to stop. It is erratic. It is disrespectful. And quite frankly, it is embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” I repeated.
“Yes,” Marcus chimed in. “The construction guys think we’re a joke. You march in there screaming, waving your arms, kicking people out. You made Dad look small. You made me look like a liar.”
“You are a liar, Marcus,” I said calmly.
“Hey,” he shouted. “Watch your mouth. I am doing what’s best for this family. Jennifer is having a baby. We need space. That lake house was just sitting there rotting while you played rich girl in the city. We were stepping up to fix it.”
“By forging my signature?” I asked. “By destroying a wall?”
“Details,” my father said, waving his hand dismissively. “Technicalities. Look, Isabella, we understand you are stressed with work. Maybe you’re lonely. We know you don’t have a husband or kids yet, so you get attached to material things. But you need to understand that people are more important than property.”
My mother nodded in agreement.
“Exactly. We are your family. We are the only people who will ever truly love you, and you are treating us like strangers over a pile of wood and bricks.”
“We have a proposal,” my father said.
He sounded like he was being generous.
“We are willing to forgive your outburst yesterday. We are willing to move past this. But you need to call the contractor right now on speakerphone and apologize. Tell him it was a misunderstanding. Tell him to resume work on Monday. And you need to write a check for the next installment of the renovation costs. If you do that, we can go back to being a happy family.”
I looked at them.
I looked at their faces.
They were not sorry. They were not scared. They truly believed they were right.
They believed that because I had money and they did not, my money belonged to them. They believed that because I was the daughter, I had to submit.
“And if I don’t?” I asked.
“Then you are turning your back on us,” my mother said, her voice trembling with false emotion. “You are choosing money over your brother’s child. You are choosing greed over love, and I don’t know if I can have a daughter like that.”
Jennifer spoke up for the first time. Her voice was soft and pitying.
“Isabella, think about the baby. Don’t you want your nephew to grow up in a nice house by the lake? Don’t you want to be the cool aunt? Why do you have to be so difficult?”
Difficult.
I sat there in silence for a long moment.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall was the only sound.
I remembered buying that clock. I remembered buying the sofa Marcus was sitting on. I remembered paying the electricity bill that kept the lights on.
“I have a proposal too,” I said softly.
“Good,” my father nodded. “Let’s hear it.”
I opened my bag. I took out the thick folder. I placed it on the dining table.
The sound of the heavy paper hitting the wood was loud in the quiet room.
“I don’t think you understand the situation,” I said. “You think this is a family argument. You think we are negotiating.”
I opened the folder.
“This is not a negotiation.”
I spread the papers out on the table one by one.
I took my time. I wanted them to see everything.
“This,” I said, pointing to the first document, “is the forensic assessment of the damage you did to my lake house. The structural engineer visited yesterday. You destroyed the load-bearing wall. You ruined the foundation of the sunroom. The electrical wiring you ripped out is a fire hazard.”
My father scoffed.
“It’s a fixer-upper. It was already broken.”
“No,” I said. “It was old. Now it is broken. The cost to repair the damage you caused is fifteen thousand dollars.”
I laid down the second document.
“This is the bank statement showing the ten thousand dollars you charged to my emergency credit card without my permission. That is theft.”
“I was going to pay you back,” my father argued.
“With what money, Dad?” I asked. “You haven’t worked in five years. You live in a house I pay for. You eat food I buy.”
“How dare you throw that in my face?” my mother hissed.
I ignored her.
I laid down the third document.