But admitting that in front of Harper would have meant conflict.
So he smiled weakly.
“Want some nachos?”
I walked upstairs.
That evening, after everyone left, I found salsa ground into the rug Harper had wanted to remove.
I knelt with cleaning spray and a towel.
Liam appeared behind me.
“I’ll do that.”
I kept scrubbing.
“You should have done something several hours ago.”
“Mom.”
“No.”
He became quiet.
“You knew the rule.”
“They were already on their way when Harper told me.”
“And?”
“What was I supposed to do?”
I turned.
“Say no.”
He looked genuinely uncomfortable.
“To her family?”
“Yes.”
“They’d think I was rude.”
I almost laughed.
“So instead I should accept eleven unexpected people in my home because you’re worried they might think you’re rude?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“It was one Sunday.”
“No, Liam.”
He looked at me.
“This is how it starts.”
“What starts?”
I pointed around the room.
“People learning that my no doesn’t matter.”
He stared at me.
For one second, I thought something had reached him.
Then he shook his head.
“You’re overreacting.”
Those two words landed harder than I expected.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they sounded rehearsed.
I stood slowly.
“Did Harper say that?”
His eyes flickered.
There was my answer.
I handed him the towel.
“You clean the rug.”
Then I went upstairs.
By Thanksgiving, the atmosphere had changed completely.
Harper no longer behaved like a guest.
She behaved like a person waiting for paperwork to catch up with reality.
She began referring to the guest bedroom as “our room.”
That was reasonable.
Then the kitchen became “our kitchen.”
The backyard became “our yard.”
One afternoon, I heard her on the phone.
“We’ll probably redo the upstairs bathroom in spring.”
I was passing through the hallway.
I stopped.
She saw me.
Her expression didn’t change.
“Gotta go.”
She ended the call.
“Whose bathroom are you redoing?”
She gave a small laugh.
“I was just talking.”
“About this house?”
“Chelsea, it needs updating eventually.”
“Eventually by whom?”
Her eyes hardened.
“I don’t know why every conversation has to become territorial.”
“Because you’re discussing renovations to property you don’t own.”
She folded her arms.
“We live here.”
“Temporarily.”
“We’re family.”
“That doesn’t change the deed.”
The second I said it, something flashed across her face.
Not anger.
Fear.
It disappeared immediately.
That stayed with me.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“No. Something just happened.”
“Nothing happened.”
She picked up her phone and walked away.
That evening, I searched for Liam.
I found him in the garage.
“What did you tell Harper about this house?”
His back stiffened.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I asked.”
“Nothing.”
“She’s talking about renovating it next spring.”
He laughed nervously.
“That’s just Harper.”
“No.”
I moved closer.
“She reacted strangely when I mentioned the deed.”
His face changed.
There it was again.
Fear.
“Liam.”
“She likes planning things.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
He reached for the door.
I stepped into his path.
For the first time in my life, my son looked irritated with me for refusing to move.
“I said nothing.”
“Then look at me.”
He did.
Barely.
“You understand that I am not giving you this house.”
His face lost color.
My stomach tightened.
“Liam?”
He forced a laugh.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told Harper something different?”
“No.”
Too fast.
He moved past me.
That was the first night I seriously considered asking them to leave before December.
I didn’t.
I told myself Christmas was coming.
Their house search would improve.
They would be gone soon.
I wanted to believe that because the alternative required admitting that something was deeply wrong.
Two days before Thanksgiving, I received a strange phone call.
A woman introduced herself as Megan from a local title company.
“Mrs. Powell?”
“Yes.”
“I’m following up on the ownership documents requested for your property.”
I frowned.
“What ownership documents?”
There was a pause.
“Regarding a potential family transfer.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“I haven’t requested any family transfer.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I have the wrong—”
“What name is on the request?”
“I’m not able to disclose account details until—”
“This is my property.”
I gave her the address.
Silence.
Then typing.
“I see.”
Her tone changed.
“Mrs. Powell, I think it would be better if you came into the office.”
My heart began beating differently.
Not faster exactly.
Heavier.
“Why?”
“There appears to have been an inquiry about transferring partial ownership.”
“From whom?”
“I can discuss that when we verify your identification.”
I scheduled an appointment for the following morning.
Then I sat at my kitchen table for nearly twenty minutes without moving.
At dinner, I watched Liam.
He barely ate.
Harper talked about Thanksgiving arrangements.
