ADVERTISEMENT
Conversations didn’t merely quiet; they stopped, as if someone had reached over and switched off the room’s sound. Brooke’s laughter cut off mid-breath, her hand frozen in the air as she gestured with her ring. My mother’s smile stiffened, confusion flickering behind her eyes. My father’s face drained of color so quickly it was almost impressive.
Uncle James blinked, genuinely surprised. “The Craftsman on Sterling Heights,” he said easily. “Sophia bought it years ago. Beautiful place. I stayed in the guest suite last time I was in town. Best sleep I’ve had in ages.”
Brooke turned toward me, her expression sharp and incredulous. “That’s not funny,” she snapped. “Sophia rents. She’s always rented. That sad little apartment near campus with the beige carpet.”
“I rented that apartment during my PhD,” I said calmly. “For two years. I bought the house on Sterling Heights eight years ago.”
The silence thickened.
I smiled, not triumphantly, not cruelly, but with the quiet certainty of someone who had waited a long time for a question that should have been asked years earlier.
Brooke laughed sharply, the sound brittle. “You’re lying,” she said. “You asked Mom for help with your car insurance back in 2018.”
ADVERTISEMENT