Then Dad stepped forward.
“You’re going to explain yourself,” he said, his voice low but dangerous. “Right now?”
I took a step back and gestured for them to come in.
“If this was going to happen, it was going to happen on my terms.”
They filed into my apartment one by one, the air heavy with tension. My mom clutched her purse like a shield. My brother kept his arms crossed like he was already siding with Dad. And my aunt and uncle stood stiffly near the wall, clearly there as witnesses more than anything else.
“Sit,” I said quietly, motioning to the couch and chairs.
To my own surprise, they actually did.
I stayed standing.
Dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at me like I was a defendant in a courtroom.
“We want to know why,” he said finally. “Why you sold the house? Why you blindsided us? Why you’ve turned your back on this family?”
I let out a slow breath.
“You really want to know why?”
“Yes,” Mom said softly, her eyes wet. “We deserve an explanation.”
I laughed, not because it was funny, but because of how absurd it sounded.
“You deserve an explanation? After everything you’ve said about me, after calling me a loser when you thought I couldn’t hear?”
Mom flinched.
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“That was a private conversation,” he said, his voice sharp.