I’m Emily Henderson, seventy-two years old, and I’ve lived in this little coastal town long enough to know when a storm is coming—my joints always tell me first. That afternoon, my bad knee was propped on the beige reading chair I bought years before my son Michael got married, and I kept telling myself it was just another day I could get through. The ocean breeze drifted through the windows I’d paid to replace last year, carrying the salt smell I’d loved for four decades, back when this house was still mine in more than just name.
Linda had her feet on my coffee table, her designer heels kicked off carelessly beside the antique wood my late husband had refinished with his own hands. She was laughing at her phone like she owned the place, scrolling through something that apparently demanded more attention than basic courtesy. Michael sat beside her staring at the television like it could save him from having to choose a side, his posture slumped in that way that made him look exactly like his father used to when he wanted to avoid conflict.
The pain in my knee had been building all afternoon, that deep ache that feels like someone’s twisting the joint from the inside. I’d been sitting there for over an hour, not wanting to be a burden, not wanting to interrupt their evening in what used to be my living room. But the water pitcher was in the kitchen, and my medication was sitting on the counter where I’d left it after lunch, and the throbbing was getting bad enough that I knew I needed to take something soon.
“Linda, honey,” I said, keeping my voice as pleasant as I could manage, “would you mind getting me a glass of water? My knee’s acting up something terrible today.”
It was a small request, nothing dramatic or demanding, just a simple favor from a woman in her own home who couldn’t walk without pain shooting up her leg. I’d asked politely, even added the endearment I’d been using for the five years she’d been part of this family, trying to build a bridge that she’d been burning from the other side since the day they moved in.
Linda didn’t even look up at first, her thumbs still flying across her phone screen. Then her tone sharpened like she’d been waiting to use it, storing up resentment for exactly this moment. “Get it yourself,” she snapped, finally raising her eyes to meet mine with a look of pure contempt.
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