My father stood there with Dennis, Brent, and Angela.
For a second, no one spoke.
Seven years vanished and did not vanish. My father’s hair had gone thinner. Dennis had gained weight. Brent looked almost exactly the same, which felt like an accusation against time. Angela’s expression was bright and prepared.
My father said, “Ryan.”
The distance between us had been reduced to a name.
I looked at them for three seconds.
Then I said, “Come in.”
They entered like buyers at an open house.
Angela looked at our apartment first. Not at me. Not Priya. The apartment. Two bedrooms, off Crescent Drive, balcony full of plants, IKEA bookshelf, secondhand coffee table Priya loved because the wood grain was real, not printed. Angela’s eyes paused on the small dining table, the framed wedding photo, the stack of assessment reports near my laptop.
Priya emerged from the bedroom and leaned against the kitchen doorway. Her face was neutral in the way desert skies are neutral before a storm.
My father sat. Dennis sat. Brent stayed standing. Angela crossed her legs.
My father began.
He said Margaret had always cared about family. He said grief made people act too quickly sometimes. He said they had all talked and agreed the right thing was for the building to “stay within the family properly.” That word, properly, carried all seven years of judgment inside it.
Dennis explained the three floors.
Angela explained the arrangement they had already worked out.
Brent said nothing, which was wise of him.
When they finished, they looked at me as if the conversation had arrived at the point where I should become useful.
Instead, I told them the building was sold.
Now they were in my living room trying to understand how a thing they had already divided in their minds had disappeared before they arrived.
“You should have consulted us,” Angela said.
“I did not need permission.”
“It was Margaret’s building.”
“Yes.”
“She was our aunt too,” Brent snapped.
I looked at him then. “When did you last call her?”
His mouth tightened.
“When did any of you?”
Dennis shifted in his chair. “That is not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.”
My father’s voice hardened. “Be careful.”
There it was. The old tone. The one meant to make me smaller without raising volume.
I felt Priya move from the doorway to stand behind the couch. Not beside me. Not speaking for me. Just close enough for me to know she was there.
“I am being careful,” I said. “More careful than this family has been with Margaret’s memory.”