I looked toward the garage door.
“Nothing. They can collect the furniture. I’m not chasing them.”
She nodded.
“And Christmas?”
I looked toward her.
For a moment, I felt the old hurt again.
Then I answered.
“We’ve got room.”
Marin smiled.
“Yes, we do.”
She reached across and squeezed my hand.
For the first time since reading Mom’s text, I felt something loosen inside me.
I wasn’t going to spend another holiday waiting for somebody to decide whether I belonged.
I had my own home.
And somebody who wanted me in it.
Later that evening, Chance called.
That was unusual.
In five years, he’d called me directly only a handful of times, usually when he wanted to borrow a tool.
He began in his usual confident voice.
“Listen, bud.”
I closed my eyes.
I knew that tone.
It was the voice he used when he expected the conversation to end with me agreeing to something.
“What is it, Chance?”
He said I had no right to keep Mom’s belongings.
That I was making a family disagreement into a property dispute.
That he was considering formal action if I didn’t deliver everything immediately.
I listened.
Then answered calmly.
“Chance, the furniture is safe. Your mother-in-law has written confirmation that she can collect it. I’ve sent photographs and available pickup times.”
He sounded irritated.
“You’re being difficult.”
I looked toward the hutch.
“No. I’m finished moving it for free.”
He paused.
Then said something coldly.
“You’ll regret making everyone choose sides.”
I took a breath.
“Nobody needs to choose sides. They just need to arrange transportation.”
Then I ended the call.
The next morning, I returned to work.
Mrs. Wozniak was delighted that I could begin her kitchen backsplash earlier than expected.
She stood beside the counter while I laid out the tile.
“Everything all right with your parents?”
I considered the question.
Then smiled politely.
“The move’s being handled.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
Then she looked toward the tile pattern.
“Are you sure those little pieces belong there?”
I laughed.
“Trust me, Mrs. Wozniak. The finished pattern will make sense.”
She studied the wall.
Then nodded.
“Well, I’ve trusted you this far.”
For the first time in two days, I spent several hours thinking about something other than my mother.
The tile.
The grout lines.
The way the light came through the kitchen window.
It felt wonderful.
Then Dad arrived at my garage.
He came alone.
His old Buick pulled into the driveway while I was cutting trim pieces.
I turned off the saw.
Dad got out slowly.
He held the car door.
Then the roof.
Then walked toward me.
For a moment, he stood looking at the furniture.
The labels.
The blankets.
The china hutch.
He didn’t say anything.
Then he walked over to his recliner and sat down.
Still wearing his coat.
For several minutes, we remained quiet.
Then Dad held out his hand.
“Let me see the message.”
I opened it on my phone.
Handed it to him.
He put on his reading glasses.
Read it.
Then took the glasses off and cleaned them with the inside of his coat.
He put them back on.
Read it again.
For a long moment, he looked toward the floor.
Then he said something that made me understand another part of the problem.
“Your mother told me you offered to do the entire move.”
I stared.
“What?”
He nodded.
“She said you called her and volunteered. Said you didn’t want us paying movers.”
I looked toward him.
“Dad, she asked because the moving company wanted thirty-eight hundred dollars.”
His expression changed.
I continued.
“I told her I’d think about it. Then you called me.”
Dad looked down.
He seemed embarrassed.
“She said you’d already agreed.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he continued.
“She told me it was your Christmas gift to us.”
I stared.
I hadn’t offered the move as a Christmas gift.
I’d agreed because my father needed help and couldn’t manage the stairs.
Then Dad added something else.
“She said you were spending Christmas with Marin’s family this year.”
I frowned.
“What?”
He nodded.
“She said you had plans in Binghamton.”
I shook my head.
“Marin’s parents live near Syracuse. And we haven’t made any Christmas plans with them.”
Dad closed his eyes.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then I looked toward him.
“Dad, what’s the basement for?”
He stared at the china hutch.
For a moment, I thought he might avoid the question.
Then he sighed.
“Erin and Chance are moving in.”
I sat down on the workbench stool.
“Since when?”
Dad rubbed his knee.
“Chance’s business got into trouble over the summer.”
I waited.
He explained.
Chance had operated a lawn-care and snowplowing business for several years.
Three mowers.
A plow truck.
A small trailer.
Commercial contracts.
Residential customers.
He’d done reasonably well for a while.
Then a larger company from Rome began competing for the same contracts.
Chance lost several important accounts.
The business’s cash flow declined.
Eventually, the lender reclaimed two pieces of financed equipment after the payments became unmanageable.
Chance continued doing occasional work.
But the business could no longer support their household the way it once had.
Their rental lease in Clinton was ending at the end of December.
They couldn’t afford to renew it under the same terms.
Mom had suggested they move into the finished basement at the new house.
“Just until spring,” Dad said.
I looked toward him.
“Do you believe that?”
He sighed.
“I’d like to.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Dad continued.
“Your mother wanted the first Christmas in the new house to be special. Erin’s family downstairs. The grandkids running around. Everyone together.”
I looked toward the old recliner.
“Everyone except me.”
Dad lowered his eyes.
He didn’t argue.
Then he said something that made the situation even stranger.
“Chance’s parents don’t know.”
I looked up.
“Don’t know what?”
“That they’re moving into our basement. Or that the business failed.”
I frowned.
Dad continued.
“Chance told Cass he’d sold the company for good money and planned to take the winter off to spend time with the children.”