Page 122 of Direct Action

Christ, but I fucking loved her.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“I’m selling the house.”

I nearly choked on my mother’s declaration, or maybe it was the french fry I’d been swallowing that was now lodged in my thankfully unbruised throat.

Something that had taken three weeks to heal. Which meant this was my first time seeing my mom or my dad post-Utah. We talked on the phone like normal, but I’d used the excuse of having the flu, then having to work double shifts to make up the time I’d been down sick as to why I hadn’t been coming by to see my dad.

I’d talked to Ryan about this, as well as Cat and Calli, and they all agreed with me. The kind thing to do was not to tell her what had happened. It was done, it was over, and there was nothing she could do. But the knowledge of what had happened to me, her daughter, would cause her undue harm.

So I didn’t tell her, and I never would. Like Ryan said, we were moving on.

All of us, except Poppy.

She was hiding. Not hiding in denial. Just outright hiding. Beck said she was riddled with guilt. The problem was she wouldn’t talk to any of us so we could help work that out of her.

“Are you all right?”

With an impolite cough, I managed to get the fry down without needing the Heimlich and waved off the nursing assistant who looked like he was ready to swoop in to save me if my face started turning blue.

“What?” I wheezed.

“I’ve thought about it, sweet tart, and it’s time.”

It wasn’t time. It would never be time for my mom to sell the house I grew up in.

Never, ever.

“Mom—”

She held up her hand and gave me the patented parental stare that was a cross between listen to me and I know what’s best.

I’d listen, but then I’d argue she didn’t know best, not about this.

“We bought that house thirty years ago. It would’ve been paid off if we hadn’t borrowed against the equity for the new roof and updates. But even after I pay off the loan and the taxes and fees, there will be a substantial amount of money left over.”

I had no doubt. On more than one occasion—okay, on many, many occasions when houses in my parents’ neighborhood sold—I’d heard my dad crow about sitting on pile of gold. Property values had only risen in the last thirty years. But in their neighborhood, where the lots meant they had a nice-size backyard and their neighbors weren’t close enough to touch, they’d skyrocketed.

That also meant my mother would buy a new house at an inflated price.

“Mom—”

“And the house is simply too big for me. It was too big when it was just the three of us. But now, with just me in it, it’s not only too big, it’s lonely. Then there’s the yard,” she went on. “I’m getting to be too old to be pulling weeds and trimming bushes. We don’t have much grass, but what we do have needs to be mowed. The driveway and walkways need to be pressure washed. The back patio is fine for now, but in a few years the retaining wall will need some repairs.”

“I could do the pressure washing, or Ryan would do it, and I’ll pay for a gardener. The brickwork that surrounds the back patio we’ll save up to get repaired.”

It was like I hadn’t spoken when she went on. “And the property tax on the house is breath stealing.”

Fuck.

I didn’t bother trying to interject again.

“My real estate agent has found a few places I like. I’m going to look at them this weekend.”

“Mom.” This time it wasn’t an interruption, it was a whisper—a painful one that felt like a knife to my heart.

My mom pushed her half-eaten sandwich off to the side and rested her clasped hands on the white tablecloth. Then she looked around the dining room full of residents and families enjoying lunch together. Clean. Upbeat. Nothing about the room screamed cafeteria or nursing home. It looked exactly like what it was—a restaurant. It was just the patrons happened to live either above in the apartments or off one of the hallways, depending on the level of care they required.