The second the question left his mouth, he realized what it sounded like. His jaw tightened.
“I mean, we could have helped you evaluate offers.”
“I had help.”
Megan’s eyes filled. That part hurt. It still does. Her tears were real, even if her expectations had been unreasonable.
“You made this huge decision without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“I’m your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Does that not matter?”
“It matters very much,” I said. “It does not make my house a shared asset.”
Andrew put both hands flat on the table. His voice remained controlled, but the warmth had gone out of it.
“That house was part of the family.”
“It was mine.”
“It was Frank’s too.”
That was the first sentence that truly angered me.
I sat straighter.
“Frank is not available to be used in this conversation.”
Megan flinched. Andrew looked down.
I continued, more gently because she was my daughter and because truth does not require cruelty.
“Your father and I bought that house. We paid for it. We repaired it. We raised children in it. When he passed, it became legally and practically mine. I am the one who slept there alone. I am the one who handled the roof repair, the taxes, the insurance, the quiet mornings, the empty chair. I had the right to decide when I was finished living inside a life that no longer fit.”
Megan wiped her cheeks. “Where are you living?”
“Asheville.”
“Since when?”
“June.”
Her eyes widened. “You moved?”