Her eyes narrowed. “At the register, Marian.”
She almost never used my name unless she was trying to remind me that she was not my child. I set the knitting down. “I canceled my transfer.”
“You what?”
“I canceled my transfer.”
Julian froze near the refrigerator.
Brooke gave a brittle laugh. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’ve decided to pay for my own groceries from now on.”
She stared at me, waiting for the rest of the explanation to turn into an apology. When it didn’t, she shifted tactics. “We all live here.”
“Yes.”
“And we share things.”
“Do we?”
Her mouth opened slightly. Julian looked at the floor.
I kept my voice even. “Most of what that account covers isn’t mine. I don’t drink the oat milk, I don’t eat the imported cheese, I don’t use the collagen powder, and I don’t need four kinds of sea salt. I’ll buy what I need.”
Brooke’s face hardened. “Julian and I work full-time.”
“I remember.”
“And you’re home.”
“I am.”
“So it makes sense for you to help.”
“I did help. For three years.”
Julian finally spoke. “Mom, nobody’s saying you don’t help.”
“That’s interesting, because it seems nobody noticed until I stopped.”
The room went still.
Brooke crossed her arms. “You live here rent-free.”
I looked at her for a long moment. Not sharply. Not cruelly. Just long enough for the words to find their proper owner.
“No, Brooke,” I said. “I own this house. You live here rent-free.”
Color rushed up her neck. Julian whispered, “Brooke,” in the weak tone of a man watching a glass slide off a table but making no move to catch it.
She picked up one of the grocery bags. “Unbelievable.”
“It is,” I said softly.
She marched upstairs. Julian stayed a second longer, looking at me with confusion that almost resembled hurt.
“Mom,” he said. “What’s going on with you?”
I picked up my knitting again. “I’m waking up.”
He waited for more, but I had given him enough.
The next morning, I reclaimed the guest room.