“Joanna,” my mother began, her voice softening into that manipulative lilt she used when she was about to be particularly cruel. “Megan needs a proper room. She’s been on the pull-out downstairs for months, and it’s hurting her back. Since you’re… between things… it makes sense for her to take your room upstairs.”
“You want me to move out?” I asked.
“You’re flexible,” Megan chimed in from the recliner. “No kids, no husband. You can just find a little studio somewhere. It’s practical.”
“When did you decide this?” I looked at my mother. “Mom, when?”
“This morning,” she replied casually. “I moved some of your boxes to the garage this afternoon just to get the process started.”
I stood up and walked down the hall to my bedroom. The door was open. Half my bookshelf was already bare. The framed photo of my college graduation—the only piece of my history that had been allowed on a wall in this house—was gone. There was only a small, lonely nail hole where my achievement used to hang.
