Chapter 1 - Oops
The first thing Sloan destroyed on my sixty-fifth birthday was the cake.
The second was the last excuse I still had for my son.
Brenda had barely finished lighting the candles when Sloan stepped around the patio table with a wineglass in one hand and that faint smile she wore whenever she wanted to remind me that she believed my house belonged to her now.
"Make a wish, Evelyn," Brenda said.
I leaned toward the lemon cake.
Sloan's elbow moved.
Not slipped. Not bumped.
Moved.
The cake hit the stone patio upside down. Frosting splattered across the pavers. Sixty-five candles scattered under chairs and shoes.
Every conversation stopped.
My son Harrison stood three feet away. He had seen exactly what I had seen.
He looked at the ground.
Sloan lifted one eyebrow, took a slow sip of wine, and said, "Oops."
Something inside me became very quiet.
For eleven months I had swallowed every complaint because Harrison had lost his job and needed "a few weeks" to get back on his feet. A few weeks had become eleven months. Sloan had taken over my linen closet, half the pantry, the downstairs bathroom, Daniel's office shelves, and somehow every room she entered.
I had kept telling myself peace mattered more than being right.
Then I looked across the patio.
Her Gucci handbag sat beside the fire pit.
She had spent all afternoon telling people Harrison had surprised her with it. Twenty-five hundred dollars, she had said twice, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I walked over, picked it up, and carried it three steps.
Harrison finally looked at me.
"Mom?"
I set the bag directly into the glowing embers.
Leather curled almost immediately.
Sloan screamed.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I looked at her.
"Oops."
Harrison rushed toward the fire pit. "Mom, are you insane?"
Sloan grabbed the long barbecue tongs and yanked the purse free. One side was black and blistered.
"You did that on purpose!"
I pointed toward the ruined cake.
"So did you."
Nobody said another word.
The party ended in nine minutes.
At 10:43 that night, Harrison knocked on my bedroom door and told me Sloan was devastated, expected an apology, and wanted me to replace the purse.
I asked, "Did she apologize for the cake?"
"That was an accident."
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then he said, "You're acting childish."
And for the first time in my life, I heard my son's voice not as my little boy's voice, but as one adult speaking disrespectfully to another.
"No," I said.
He blinked. "No what?"
"No apology. No purse. No more pretending."
The next morning I took out a yellow legal pad and wrote two words across the top.
May you like
MY HOUSE.
Five days later, a banker would turn a computer screen toward me and show me that the burned handbag was the cheapest thing Sloan had taken.
