Our bedroom.
The one with the attached bathroom, the walk-in closet, and the windows overlooking the maple trees in the backyard. The room Daniel and I collapsed into after twelve-hour workdays. The room inside the home we purchased with our savings, our credit, and our names on the mortgage.
“Tyler needs space,” my mother said, folding her hands together like she was presenting a perfectly logical proposal. “He’s going through a difficult period.”
I stared at her. “He can stay in the guest room for two weeks, like we already agreed.”
Tyler finally glanced up. “The guest room’s tiny.”
“It has a bed, a desk, and a bathroom down the hall,” I said. “That’s more than enough.”
My mother’s face hardened immediately. “Emily, stop being selfish. Your brother needs the master bedroom more than you do.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was rain tapping against the windows.
I laughed once because I genuinely thought she had misspoken. But she kept staring at me with complete seriousness.
“In my house?” I asked slowly.
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