The Sound of Waves

The words hung in the air like a slap I should have seen coming but somehow didn’t.

I sat at my own dining room table, fork suspended halfway to my mouth, and felt something inside me snap. Not break—snap. Clean and sharp, like a bone finally giving way after years of pressure.

The room fell silent. My sister-in-law looked away. My granddaughter stared at her plate. No one defended me. No one said a word. And in that silence, I made a decision that would change everything.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning, or at least at the moment when the beginning of the end became inevitable.

My name is Adeline Miller. I’m sixty-nine years old, a widow, and until recently, I believed that being a good mother meant sacrificing everything—my comfort, my desires, my peace—for my son. I cooked Sunday dinners in my modest ranch house in a quiet Los Angeles suburb, the same meals I’d been making since the Reagan administration. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with almonds. Predictable. Safe. The kind of dinner that was supposed to mean family.

That particular Sunday started like any other. I’d spent the afternoon in the kitchen, my domain for decades, preparing food for people who had stopped noticing the effort long ago. Paul, my forty-two-year-old son, sat at the head of the table—not because it was his house, but because he’d simply claimed that seat years ago and I’d never challenged it. His wife Julia sat beside him, wearing that small, controlled smirk she always had when she knew she was about to get her way.

My sister-in-law Dorothy had come by, twisting her napkin nervously as she always did when tension rose, but never actually intervening. And Lauren, my fifteen-year-old granddaughter, sat quietly picking at her food, her eyes darting between the adults as if watching a car accident in slow motion.

The conversation had been mundane—work complaints, neighborhood gossip, the weather. Then Julia mentioned something about redecorating. About needing more space. About how cramped she felt in “that tiny guest room.”

And that’s when my son said it.

“You either give my wife your room or pack your bags.”

Not a request. Not a suggestion. An ultimatum, delivered with the casual authority of someone who’d forgotten—or never learned—that this was my house, not his.

He didn’t whisper it. He didn’t soften it with an apology or a “please, Mom, could you consider.” He yelled it as if I were an employee being given a directive, as if my bedroom were up for negotiation, as if I didn’t have the right to refuse in my own home.

Julia’s smirk widened just slightly. Dorothy found something fascinating in her lap to stare at. Lauren’s knuckles went white around her fork.

And I—Adeline Miller, who had spent sixty-nine years being accommodating, being understanding, being the person who bent so others wouldn’t have to—I felt clarity wash over me like cold water.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I saw the situation exactly as it was. My son wasn’t asking for help. He was demanding my submission. And he expected me to comply because I always had before.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t argue or negotiate or try to explain why his request was inappropriate.

I simply put down my silverware, folded my napkin with careful precision, and said in a voice so calm it surprised even me, “That’s fine, Paul. I’ll pack my bags.”

The silence that followed was profound. You could hear the kitchen clock ticking three rooms away. You could hear someone’s breath catch—maybe Dorothy’s, maybe Lauren’s.

Paul looked at me with confusion, as if the script had suddenly changed and he didn’t know his next line. He’d expected tears. He’d expected begging. He’d expected me to fold, the way I always had.

Julia let out a nervous laugh that died quickly when no one else joined in.

But I had already stood up, my chair scraping softly against the hardwood floor. I walked away from that table with my back straight, the way my mother had taught me to walk in church when people were watching, when dignity was all you had left.

That night, while they continued their dinner in the dining room—laughing too loudly, trying to pretend nothing had happened, clinking glasses and refilling wine as if the evening were salvageable—I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hand.

I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t paralyzed by indecision. I was scrolling through real estate listings with the brightness turned low so the light wouldn’t creep under my door and alert them to what I was doing.

There was a listing my best friend Rita had sent me weeks ago. We’d met through our church quilting group, and over the years we’d become the kind of friends who tell each other the truth, even when it hurts. She’d texted me a link to a cottage two hours north, in a sleepy beach town off Highway 101.

Adeline, look at this, she’d written. Someday you and I are going to own houses like this, and we’re going to drink wine and watch the sunset over the Pacific.

I had responded with a laughing emoji, as if it were a fantasy, as impossible as flying to the moon.

But that night, with the sound of forced laughter drifting through my walls, I opened that message and looked at the photos with new eyes.

The cottage was small—two bedrooms, a deck with an ocean view, weathered wood that had seen countless summers. It was listed at $180,000, which seemed impossibly high and perfectly within reach at the same time.

Within reach because of my savings. Savings I’d accumulated over decades of working as an independent accountant, doing tax returns for small businesses, staying late every April surrounded by coffee mugs and calculator tapes. Savings I’d built by saying no to trips, to luxuries, to things I wanted for myself, because there was always something more urgent.

Paul’s college tuition. Paul’s used Honda. Paul’s wedding, where Julia insisted on an open bar and a hotel ballroom that my bank account funded more than his. Paul and Julia’s first apartment when they couldn’t make rent.

I had always said yes. I had always been the solution.

But as I looked at that listing, at the wooden deck and the promise of waves, I thought something that made me feel dizzy and free all at once: This money is mine.

I took a screenshot. I opened my banking app. I had $210,000 saved. More than enough.

The next morning at seven a.m., while the neighborhood was still quiet and sprinklers clicked rhythmically in suburban yards, I called the real estate agency.

“Pacific Crest Realty, this is Megan,” a professional voice answered.

“My name is Adeline Miller,” I said, surprised by how steady I sounded. “I’d like to see the property on Ocean View Lane. Today, if possible.”

There was a pause, the sound of clicking keys. “I can meet you there at eleven a.m. Does that work?”

“Yes,” I said. “It does.”

When Paul came downstairs at nine, disheveled and yawning in the same college t-shirt he’d worn for a decade, he found me sitting on the sofa with my phone.

“Is breakfast ready?” he asked.

“No,” I replied without looking up. “I’m going out.”

“Where?” The question was more demand than curiosity.

“I have an appointment.”

He huffed, opening the refrigerator as if the house and everything in it belonged to him. “Don’t be out too long. Julia wants you to take her to the mall later.”

“I won’t be able to,” I said, standing. I grabbed my purse before he could respond.

I dressed carefully that morning—jeans Rita had convinced me to buy from Macy’s sale rack, a simple white blouse, walking sneakers that still had sand on them from the last church beach picnic. I looked in the mirror and saw a woman who still had resolve in her jawline, clarity in her eyes.

The drive to the coast was the first time in years I’d driven alone for so long. I played old songs from the seventies—Fleetwood Mac, Carole King, the Eagles—and let the wind tangle my hair through the open windows. For two hours, no one needed anything from me. No one called with an emergency or a favor or a problem only I could solve.

I felt light.

The real estate agent waiting at the property wasn’t Megan but a kind-looking man in his fifties named Daniel. Behind him, the Pacific stretched endlessly, glittering in the late morning sun.

The house was even more beautiful in person. Light poured through big windows that framed the ocean like a painting that never stopped moving. The kitchen had white cabinets and worn Formica countertops that reminded me of old diners along Route 66. The wood floors showed the gentle wear of sandy feet and summer evenings—use, not neglect.

The deck had space for a small table and two chairs. I could picture myself there with morning coffee, reading a book, listening to waves instead of complaints.

“What do you think?” Daniel asked, watching my face.

“I think it’s perfect.”

“Would you like to think about it for a few days? Talk to your family?”

“No,” I said. “I want to buy it now.”

His eyebrows rose. “Are you sure, Ms. Miller? It’s a major decision.”

“I’ve been making decisions for sixty-nine years,” I told him. “This is the first one I’m making just for myself.”

We sat at the empty kitchen counter—someone had left a faint coffee ring years ago—and he walked me through the paperwork. The price was $180,000. I could transfer the funds in two days. The house was debt-free and ready for closing.

I had $210,000 saved. I would have $30,000 left for whatever came next.

I signed the first documents right there, my signature sealing something I didn’t fully understand yet but knew was right.

“You can move in within seventy-two hours if you want,” Daniel said, handing me his card.

“Perfect,” I replied. “I want to move in within seventy-two hours.”

I stood on the deck afterward, alone, holding temporary keys. The waves came and went with a rhythm that asked for nothing, demanded nothing. They just existed.

I took out my phone and photographed the horizon. Sent it to Rita with two words: I did it.

Her response was immediate: You did what?

I bought the beach house.

The messages came rapid-fire after that. Disbelief, excitement, demands for details. Finally: Does Paul know?

Paul doesn’t know anything, I typed back. And I’m not telling him until I’m already living here.

Rita called immediately, her voice a mixture of shock and pride. We talked for twenty minutes while I stood on that deck, the ocean breeze in my hair, feeling more myself than I had in decades.

When I drove back that afternoon, taking the scenic coastal road as long as possible, I felt like I was traveling between two different lives—the one I was leaving behind and the one waiting for me seventy-two hours ahead.

Paul was watching television when I arrived home. “Where were you?” he asked without looking up.

“Handling some things,” I replied, heading straight to my room.

I closed the door and stood in the middle of the space, looking at everything I’d accumulated over the years. Framed photos of Paul in Halloween costumes and Little League uniforms. The clock my husband gave me before he died. The quilt from that New Mexico road trip. Books piled on the nightstand.

Everything had a history. But none of it made me feel at home anymore.

I took two large suitcases from the closet and started packing. Clothes first, then important documents, jewelry, photos that actually mattered—not the ones kept out of obligation, but the ones that held my heart.

I worked in silence for hours. No one came to check on me. No one knocked.

At ten p.m., Paul yelled from downstairs: “Mom, are you going to make dinner or what?”

“No!” I yelled back. “Order something.”

The silence that followed was pregnant with confusion, but they didn’t come up. They were used to me giving in, solving things, being available. When I didn’t, they simply adapted and ordered takeout.

The next morning, I called Rita. “I need you to come with me to my attorney’s office. I’m putting this house up for sale.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said without hesitation.

I contacted Christine Rose, a lawyer from my mall walking group. We’d bonded over stories of bad knees and difficult adult children. She had time that afternoon at four.

Rita arrived promptly. We drove downtown to Christine’s office in a brick building near the old courthouse, American flags snapping in the breeze.

The process was faster than I expected. We listed the house at $320,000—fair market value for the neighborhood. Christine explained it would likely sell within a month.

“Does Paul know?” Christine asked, her expression carefully neutral.

“No,” I said. “And I don’t want him to know until it’s done.”

“Legally, you don’t have to tell him anything,” Christine confirmed. “The house is in your name. Your savings are yours. You have no obligation to inform him about your financial decisions.”

Something unclenched in my chest. “Good.”

Christine also updated my will. “If something happens to you, I want you to have total control over who receives what.”

“My granddaughter Lauren,” I said without hesitation. “She’s always been different. She treats me with real affection, not obligation.”

The next few days in that house were surreal. I continued cooking, cleaning, doing what I’d always done, but with the knowledge that every day brought me closer to leaving. Paul and Julia had moved into my bedroom as if it had always been theirs. Julia reorganized the closet, rearranged furniture, hung her clothes where mine used to be.

Paul never asked how I felt sleeping in the guest room. He simply assumed I’d accepted “my place.”

One afternoon, Julia came downstairs with a handwritten list. “Adeline, I need you to buy these things from the grocery store. Paul and I are having friends over Saturday.”

I read the items—expensive wine, imported cheese, premium steaks, artisan desserts. Easily over two hundred dollars.

“Who’s paying for this?” I asked.

Julia looked at me like the question was absurd. “Well, you, obviously. It’s your house.”

“I thought it wasn’t my house anymore,” I replied calmly. “I thought it was yours now.”

Her face reddened. “Don’t start with the drama, Adeline.”

“If you want to have a party,” I said, folding the list and handing it back, “you pay for it.”

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded.

“Nothing is wrong with me. I’m just telling you that if you want to host something, you host it with your money.”

She stormed upstairs, shouting for Paul. He came down moments later with an expression of annoyance.

“What’s going on now?” he asked.

“Your mom won’t pay for the party food,” Julia said, crossing her arms.

Paul looked at me like I was a petulant child. “Mom, don’t be difficult. It’s just a dinner.”

“Exactly. A dinner you can afford.”

“What has gotten into you lately?” Paul’s voice rose. “You talk back. You don’t help. It’s like you’re annoyed we’re here.”

“I’m not annoyed you’re here,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I’m annoyed that you treat me like I work for you.”

“No one treats you like that,” Julia interjected.

“No? Then what do you call what happened at dinner? What do you call yelling at me to pack my bags if I didn’t give you my room?”

Awkward silence filled the space. Paul looked away. Julia pressed her lips together.

“You were overreacting,” Paul finally said. “I didn’t yell. I just asked you to be reasonable.”

“You asked me to be reasonable by yelling at me in front of everyone.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Julia said in her mediator voice. “We were all stressed.”

“But he did say it,” I replied. “And you took my room. So the misunderstanding worked out fine for you.”

Paul huffed. “You know what? I’m not arguing about this. If you don’t want to help with the food, fine. We’ll figure it out ourselves.”

“Perfect,” I said, returning to my chopping board.

They went upstairs muttering. I heard fragments through the walls. “She’s unbearable.” “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” “She wasn’t like this before.”

They were right. I wasn’t like this before.

Before, I said yes to everything. Before, I apologized for things that weren’t my fault. Before, I lived to please them.

That night, alone in the dark living room with my phone, I texted Rita: Every day I spend here, I realize how much time I wasted being the person they wanted me to be.

She replied immediately: But you’re not wasting time anymore. Now you’re getting it back.

On Wednesday, the first potential buyers came to view the house—a young couple with excitement in their eyes, probably planning their first home together. I showed them every room while Paul and Julia were out. They took photos, measured spaces, asked questions.

“It’s beautiful,” the woman said at the door. “We’ll think about it and let you know.”

Two other showings happened that week, all while Paul was out. All ended the same way: “We’ll think about it.”

Friday morning, I signed my updated will at Christine’s office. Lauren would receive sixty percent of my assets. Paul would get forty percent. And there was a clause: anyone contesting the will would automatically forfeit their share.

“How do you feel?” Christine asked.

“Like I’m finally waking up,” I replied.

Saturday afternoon, when I returned home, Paul and Julia were in the living room arguing in low voices. They stopped when they saw me.

“Where were you?” Paul demanded.

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Handling some things.”

He looked suspicious but didn’t press. Julia, however, had that expression she wore when planning something.

“Adeline,” she said sweetly, “we need to talk about something important.”

I sat across from them. “What is it?”

“Paul and I were evicted from our apartment,” Julia said bluntly. “The owner wants to sell. We have to be out in two weeks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Are you looking for another place?”

“We thought we could stay here for a while,” Paul said. “There’s enough space. Just a few months until we find something.”

“No,” I said simply.

“What?” Paul asked.

“No. You can’t stay here.”

“Mom,” Paul’s voice rose. “We’re your family. Are you going to leave us on the street?”

“I’m not leaving you on the street. I’m letting you solve your problems like the adults you are.”

Paul stood abruptly. “I can’t believe this. Since when are you so selfish?”

“Selfish?” I repeated the word slowly. “Interesting that you use that word.”

“What else should I call it? You have this house to yourself and won’t help your own son.”

“This house has three bedrooms, Paul. One is mine—which you occupy. Another is the guest room where I now sleep. The third is my office where I work to pay for this house.”

“Turn the office into a bedroom,” Julia suggested. “It’s not that hard.”

“My office is where I earn the money that pays for this house. Where should I work? The kitchen?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Paul said.

“I’m not arguing about this,” I said calmly. “The answer is no.”

Paul softened his tone, trying manipulation. “Mom, I know you’ve been stressed. I know I said things I shouldn’t have, but we’re family. Families help each other.”

“Families respect each other,” I replied. “And you haven’t respected me in a long time.”

“That’s not true,” he protested.

“No? What do you call yelling at me to pack my bags? Respect?”

“I already apologized for that,” he lied. He had never apologized. Not once.

“No, Paul. You didn’t apologize. You didn’t even acknowledge that you did it.”

Julia intervened with her victim voice. “Adeline, we’re really in a difficult situation. Are you really going to turn your back on us?”

“You’re adults with jobs,” I said, standing. “You can rent another place. You can get a loan. You can do what millions of people do when they need housing.”

“But you’re his mother,” Julia insisted. “Mothers are supposed to help.”

“And I did. For forty-two years. I paid for your college, Paul. I bought you your first car. I loaned you money for the wedding. I’ve helped with rent more times than I can count. I’ve helped enough.”

“I can’t believe my own mother is denying me a roof,” Paul said, his voice shaky.

“I’m not denying you a roof. I’m denying you my roof. There’s a difference.”

I went upstairs and closed the door. Their voices rose below.

“Ungrateful.” “Selfish.” “Bitter old woman.”

I texted Rita: It just happened. They asked to move in. I said no.

She sent a voice memo: “Adeline Miller, you are my hero.”

As expected, I wrote back. Shouting, threats, drama.

“Selfish is what they’ve been to you all your life,” Rita replied in another memo. “You’re just setting boundaries. That’s not selfishness. That’s survival.”

Sunday morning, I woke early and made coffee just for myself. No longer breakfast for everyone. No longer setting the table for three. Just my cup, my toast, my fruit.

Paul came down around eleven, looking like he hadn’t slept. He poured coffee and stood staring at me.

“What?” I asked without looking up from my tablet.

“Nothing. I’m just wondering what happened to you.”

“What happened to me?”

“You used to be different. You used to care about your family.”

I put down the tablet and met his eyes. “I used to care about my family so much that I forgot about myself. That’s the difference.”

He scoffed. “That sounds like something from a cheap self-help book.”

“It sounds like something I should have figured out thirty years ago.”

Paul slammed his cup on the counter. “You know what, Mom? Do whatever you want. You’ve always done what you wanted anyway.”

I laughed—short, almost bitter. “Paul, if I had done what I wanted, I would have traveled the world when your dad died. I would have gotten the master’s degree I dreamed of. I would have lived alone and in peace. But no. I stayed here taking care of you, helping you, waiting for you to value me even a little.”

“I do value you,” he said without conviction.

“No, Paul. You use me. And there’s a huge difference between valuing and using.”

He had no answer because he knew it was true.

Julia came down minutes later, already dressed and made up, carrying her superior attitude like expensive perfume.

“Good morning,” she said without looking at me.

They ignored me, talking to each other in low voices as if I weren’t there.

“Adeline,” Julia said suddenly, “we need to use your car today. Ours is giving us problems.”

“No,” I said.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I’m not lending you my car.”

“How are we supposed to get around?” Paul demanded.

“Taxi, Uber, walking—like everyone else.”

Julia laughed dryly. “Unbelievable. First you won’t let us stay, now you won’t lend us the car. What’s next? Are you going to charge us for breathing your air?”

“If you want, you can leave right now and breathe air somewhere else,” I said calmly.

Paul slammed his hand on the table. “Stop. That’s enough, Mom. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but this is too much.”

“What’s wrong with me, Paul, is that I got tired. Tired of being invisible. Tired of being treated like a maid. Tired of you assuming everything I own is yours.”

“No one assumes that,” Julia lied.

“No? Then tell me, Julia—why are you sleeping in my bedroom? Using my kitchen like it’s yours? Assuming I’ll pay for your parties and lend you my things?”

She opened her mouth, closed it without speaking.

I got up, washed my cup, and left the kitchen.

My phone buzzed. A message from Daniel, the real estate agent.

Ms. Miller, the young couple wants to make an offer: $315,000. Are you interested?

I replied immediately: Yes. I accept.

Perfect. I’ll prepare the papers. We can close in one week.

One week. In one week, this house would no longer be mine. And Paul had no idea.

That afternoon, while they were upstairs, I started packing things discreetly. Photos, books, documents—everything into boxes I hid in the guest room.

Monday morning, while Paul and Julia slept, I took three boxes to a storage unit I’d rented near the freeway. The employee helped me sign the paperwork.

“Are you moving a lot of things?” she asked.

“Only the important things,” I replied.

That afternoon, Christine messaged me: The buyer wants to expedite closing. It can be ready Thursday. Does that work?

I stared at the message. Thursday. Three days.

Perfect, I wrote. Thursday is fine.

I called Rita immediately. “I need you to come with me Thursday to sign the sale.”

“I’ll be there,” she said without hesitation. “When are you moving to the beach?”

“Friday. I’m signing Thursday and leaving Friday.”

“And Paul?”

“Paul will find out Thursday night when there’s no turning back.”

“Are you sure you want to do it that way?”

“Completely sure. If I tell him before, he’ll try to manipulate me, make me feel guilty, convince me not to do it. I’ve made my decision.”

“You’re stronger than you think, Adeline.”

“I’m learning to be.”

The next few days were surreal. I was still in the house physically, but mentally I was already at the beach, already in my new life.

Tuesday, Julia tried a different strategy. She came into the kitchen while I was preparing food, wearing a forced smile.

“Adeline, I know things have been tense, and I want you to know I’m sorry.”

I looked at her without responding.

“Truly. Paul and I have been very stressed about the apartment, and we haven’t been fair to you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, continuing to slice carrots.

“What I mean is that we value everything you do, and we want to make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me?”

“Yes.” She pulled out her phone. “Look. I found this spa with a full-day package—massage, facial, everything. I thought we could go together this weekend. You and me, like friends.”

I looked directly into her eyes. “Who’s paying for that spa, Julia?”

She blinked, uncomfortable. “Well, I thought maybe you could treat me, as a gesture of—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I’m not treating you to any spa.”

Her smile vanished. “It was just an idea. You don’t have to be rude.”

“I’m not being rude. I’m being clear. I’m not spending my money buying you things so you can pretend to appreciate me.”

She walked out muttering something I couldn’t hear.

Wednesday night, Paul attempted his own approach. He knocked on my door around ten.

“Can I come in?”

“Go ahead.”

He sat on the edge of the bed while I folded clothes, packing the last things into my suitcase.

“Mom, I don’t want us to be fighting.”

“We’re not fighting, Paul. I’m just no longer willing to let you disrespect me.”

“I never meant to disrespect you.”

“But you did,” I said, stopping to look at him. “You did when you yelled at me at dinner. When you took my room without asking. Every time you assumed I’d solve your problems.”

He ran his hands over his face. “I don’t know what you want me to do. I already told you I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t said you’re sorry, Paul. You’ve said you regret that I’m upset. It’s not the same.”

Silence.

“Do you know what the problem is?” I continued. “You think saying ‘I’m sorry’ will magically make everything go back to how it was. But it doesn’t work that way. You can’t disrespect me and expect me to just forget.”

“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel bad,” he said, and for the first time, he sounded genuine.

“But you did. And intentions don’t erase damage.”

He nodded slowly. “What can I do to fix it?”

“Nothing, Paul. It’s too late to fix it.”

He looked confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve already made decisions about my life, and I’m not changing them.”

“What decisions?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

He stayed sitting there for several more minutes, waiting for me to say more. I didn’t. Finally, he got up and left, closing the door softly.

Thursday dawned gray and heavy. I dressed carefully—black pants, white blouse, pearl earrings. I wanted to look good, to feel good for this moment.

I left a note on the kitchen table: Out running errands. Back in the afternoon.

Rita picked me up at nine. “Ready?” she asked.

“More than ready.”

We drove to the attorney’s office downtown. The buyer was already there—a young man in his thirties with his wife. We greeted each other formally.

The notary read all the documents in that monotonous voice legal professionals practice. He explained terms, conditions, dates. The buyer would pay $315,000. The transaction would be completed that day. I had until Sunday to vacate completely.

“Any questions?” the notary asked.

“None,” I replied.

I signed each page, my cursive signature—Adeline Miller—sealing the end of an era.

When I finished, the notary handed me a check for $315,000.

I held it in my hands, feeling the weight of freedom.

Rita squeezed my hand under the table.

Outside, Rita hugged me tightly. “You did it. You really did it.”

“Yes,” I replied, surprised by the tears in my eyes. Not sadness. Relief.

“Do you want to get something to eat before going back?” Rita asked.

“Yes. I want to celebrate.”

We went to a small Italian restaurant near the courthouse, one with red-checkered tablecloths and a view of a little park where children ran around a fountain.

We ordered white wine and pasta. We toasted to new beginnings.

“When are you telling them?” Rita asked.

“Tonight. When I get home.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No. I have to do this alone.”

I returned home around five. Paul’s car was parked outside. I took a deep breath before opening the door.

Paul and Julia were in the living room watching television. They looked up when they saw me.

“Where were you?” Paul asked.

“Handling some things.”

“What things?” Julia insisted.

“Mine.”

I went upstairs and sat on the bed for several minutes, mentally preparing.

At seven, I went back downstairs. “Paul. Julia. I need to talk to you.”

Paul put down his sandwich. “About what?”

“Come to the living room, please.”

They followed me, expressions mixing curiosity and irritation.

We sat—them on the sofa, me in the armchair. I took a deep breath and spoke in a clear, firm voice.

“I sold the house.”

Absolute silence.

Paul looked at me like he hadn’t understood. Julia blinked repeatedly.

“What did you say?” Paul finally asked.

“I sold the house. I signed the papers this morning. The new owners take possession Sunday.”

Paul stood abruptly. “What? You can’t do that.”

“I already did.”

“This is my house. I grew up here. You can’t sell it without consulting me.”

“This house is in my name, Paul. I don’t need to consult you.”

Julia also stood. “Wait. Where exactly are we supposed to live?”