The electric bill was exactly two hundred forty dollars, and Diane Carter pushed it aside with the tip of her red-painted fingernail as if it were a dry leaf that had blown through the window. The paper slid across the gray granite counter, stopping against my cold coffee mug.
Diane did not look up from her small green notepad, where she was jotting down measurements for the second-floor windows. She was seventy-one, and her posture was always as rigid as a yardstick, her arms crossed tightly over her chest whenever she sat in my kitchen.
“Melissa needs to be in by the first of November,” Diane said, her voice sharp and steady. “That gives you exactly three weeks to pack up your things and find a suitable apartment near the highway.”
My fingers tightened around the handle of my mug, the ceramic cold against my palm. The coffee inside was black and still, a dark puddle that had been sitting there since six in the morning.
“This is my house, Diane,” I said, keeping my voice level and direct. “I paid the mortgage on the first, just like I do every single month.”
I pointed to the yellow legal pad sitting between us on the island. On the top sheet, I had written out our household expenses in precise columns: one thousand eight hundred dollars for the mortgage, eighty-five for the water, and the lawn care contract.
Diane did not even glance at the columns of numbers. She adjusted the collar of her beige cardigan and stared at the microwave clock, her jaw set in a hard, pale line.
“My son bought this house before you arrived,” she said, her voice carrying that sharp, commanding tone she used when she was ordering groceries. “You need to move out, you are only a guest here.”
I adjusted my gold wristwatch, feeling the heavy metal band pinch my skin as I tried to keep my breathing even. I had paid every single utility bill and mortgage payment on this property for the last five years, but to Diane, my name on the deed was just a temporary clerical error.
