The realtor’s BMW turned into my driveway at exactly nine, a glossy black wedge that looked like it had been polished with someone’s soul. A second later, the white Mercedes followed, nose too close to the BMW’s bumper, as if my parents couldn’t even give other people space in a parking situation.
From my office window upstairs, I watched them get out. Ms.
BMW—who I would later learn was Ms. Brennan—emerged first, tall, sharp suit, posture like she’d swallowed a steel rod. She tapped something into her phone before even shutting the car door.
My mother climbed out of the Mercedes with a little groan, smoothing a hand over her already-perfect hair, and then immediately pointed at my garden.
Of course she did.
Even through the glass, I could see the disdain on her face as she gestured widely, the way she always did when complaining about something. Her hand flicked toward the wildflowers I’d let take over the front beds—cone flowers, daisies, bee balm, little explosions of color and messy beauty. My aunt Helen had called them “joy weeds.” My mother thought they looked like neglect.
Her mouth moved, too far for me to hear the words, but I could imagine them well enough.
It looks abandoned.
No curb appeal.
What will the neighbors think?
My father walked around the front of the Mercedes, slower, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other shading his eyes as he examined the house like a buyer at an auction.
His face held that familiar mix of boredom and disapproval, like he couldn’t decide which emotion he wanted to use to ruin my day.
The doorbell rang.
I didn’t move.
The bell rang again, longer this time, followed by the rapid-fire staccato of my mother’s finger. Then the pounding started—her tiny fist somehow producing an impressive boom against my front door.
“Natalie! Open up!
We have business to discuss!”
Of course we did. My parents never came to “visit.” They arrived with demands, with expectations, with agendas.
I took a sip of my coffee, the mug warm in my hands, and deliberately set it down to save my work. The code on my screen—my current project—waited patiently, more loyal and predictable than any human in my bloodline.
I hit save, closed my laptop, and took a moment to refill my mug from the French press.
Let them wait.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
