Daniel replaced furniture.
Boxes disappeared from the guest rooms.
My photographs moved.
Their lives expanded.
Mine shrank.
Then came Christmas.
Pay rent or leave.
There was just one problem.
Daniel could not charge rent on a house he did not own.
Linda stared at me.
“Does he know?”
“He's about to.”
My phone rang.
Not Daniel.
My attorney.
Martin Hale.
“Merry Christmas, Margaret.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“I received your message.”
“I'm sorry to bother you today.”
“You're not. What happened?”
I told him.
Not emotionally.
Factually.
Daniel's demand.
The public humiliation.
My departure.
Then I said:
“I want them out.”
Martin became quiet.
“Are you certain?”
I looked around my new living room.
“Yes.”
“They have occupancy rights. We need to handle this properly.”
“I know.”
“We'll begin with formal notice.”
“Good.”
“And Margaret?”
“Yes?”
“Do not go back there alone.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“Because people behave unpredictably when they discover something they believed belonged to them never did.”
I looked at Linda.
She had heard.
“All right.”
The next two days were quiet.
Then December twenty-seventh arrived.
At 10:14 a.m., Daniel called.
This time, I answered.
“Mom.”
“Hello, Daniel.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
A pause.
“What?”
“At my home.”
