We’d see about that.
I reached into my nightstand drawer and pulled out a manila folder I’d hoped never to need. Inside were documents that would change everything. Documents that proved just how wrong they were about who held the power in this house.
Tomorrow when I was supposed to be packing my things in shame, I would show them exactly who Pette Morrison really was.
I didn’t sleep that night. How could I?
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Kent’s voice calling me a parasite. Saw Oakley’s satisfied smirk as she delivered her ultimatum.
But lying there in the darkness, other memories began to surface. Memories I’d buried under years of trying to keep the peace.
I remembered the phone call that changed everything 3 years ago. Oakley’s voice had been shaking, desperate in a way I hadn’t heard since she was a little girl, afraid of thunderstorms.
“Mom, I don’t know what to do. David stopped sending child support checks. The bank is threatening foreclosure. I might lose the house.”
She’d been crying.
Really crying.
Not the manipulative tears she’d perfected as a teenager.
And like always, my maternal instincts kicked in before my common sense could catch up.
“How much do you need?” I’d asked, already calculating how much I could pull from my retirement savings.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe you could come stay with us for a while. Help with Kent and the house payments. Just until I get back on my feet.”
Just until.
Those words had been the beginning of the end of my independence.
I’d sold my small but comfortable apartment, the one I’d worked for 30 years to pay off. I’d liquidated my savings account, cashed in bonds, even sold my mother’s engagement ring.
All to help Oakley keep this house.
The house she now claimed was hers alone.
The first few months hadn’t been too bad. Oakley had been grateful then, almost like the daughter I remembered from better times. She’d included me in decisions, asked for my advice, even thanked me for the sacrifices I was making.
But gratitude, I’d learned, has a short shelf life.
By the six-month mark, my presence had become expected rather than appreciated. By the first year, I’d somehow transformed from savior to burden.
The woman who’d begged me to save her home was now treating me like an unwelcome guest who’d overstayed her welcome.
I thought about all the small humiliations that had accumulated over the years. The way Oakley introduced me to her friends.
“This is my mother. She’s staying with us for a while.”
Never: This is my mother who saved our house.
Or even just: This is my mother Pette.
Always with that qualifier that made my presence sound temporary and slightly embarrassing.
Then there were the house rules that gradually appeared.
Don’t use the good towels.
Don’t eat the expensive yogurt.
Don’t have the TV too loud.
Don’t invite anyone over without asking first.
Don’t rearrange the furniture.
Don’t. Don’t.
I’d watched myself shrink both physically and emotionally, trying to take up less space in a house I’d helped save.
The worst part was watching Kent change.
When I’d first moved in, he’d been 12 and still sweet. Still the little boy who’d climb into my lap for stories. But as he grew older and absorbed his mother’s attitude toward me, he’d become a stranger, a cold, entitled stranger who saw me as an inconvenience.
I remembered his 13th birthday party.
I’d spent days planning it, buying decorations with my social security money, baking his favorite cake from scratch.
But when his friends arrived, he’d asked me to “stay in your room so my friends don’t think you live here.”
The humiliation had been crushing, but I’d complied.
I always complied.
Or the time I’d offered to help him with his history project about family heritage.
He’d looked at me like I’d suggested something disgusting.
“Why would I want to include you? You’re not even really family. You’re just mom’s mom.”
Just mom’s mom.
As if our relationship existed only through Oakley. As if I had no independent value in his life.
I’d stopped trying after that.
Stopped offering help with homework.
Stopped asking about his day.