A plan.
She unfolded it carefully on the table. It was a handwritten schedule detailing how Tyler would “transition” into our master bedroom over the weekend. According to Linda, Daniel and I would move into the smaller guest room “temporarily,” Tyler would use the master suite while he “rebuilt his confidence,” and my mother would visit twice a week to help him “settle in.”
I stared at the paper in disbelief.
“You actually wrote a moving schedule for my bedroom?”
“I wrote a recovery plan for my son.”
“I’m your daughter.”
Her mouth tightened sharply. “Then start acting like a sister.”
That hurt more than I wanted it to. Not because it was fair, but because it was familiar. My entire childhood had been one endless lesson in giving Tyler the larger slice of cake, the newer shoes, the second chance, the benefit of the doubt.
Before I could answer, Daniel walked through the front door, rain clinging to his jacket and concern written across his face.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Tyler immediately stood up. “Your wife’s kicking me out.”
Daniel looked at me first, not them. “Emily?”
I handed him the paper.
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