“Actually,” Diane interrupted, her finger tapping a document on the table, “I am the primary lienholder on this property. My father’s inheritance paid off the $22,000 down payment when the bank was ready to lock the doors.

I paid the back taxes in 2021. I paid for the new roof after that ice storm last winter. My name is on the deed, Patricia. Your name is on the mailbox, yes. But the bank looks to me.”

The room was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Mason stood in the doorway, his plate in his hands, watching his mother. He didn’t understand the legalities, but he understood the shift in power. He stood a little taller.

“So,” Diane said, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried across the room like a gunshot. “Mason is going to sit at this table. He is going to have a piece of that cake. And he is going to be treated with the exact same respect as Chloe. If he isn’t, I will have the eviction notice served by Monday morning. And I think you know I’m not bluffing.”

Patricia looked at the folder, then at Wayne, then at the window overlooking the river she was so fond of. The power had drained out of her. She looked smaller, thinner, and suddenly very old. She didn’t say a word. She couldn’t. She knew the reality of her bank account, and she knew that Diane had the receipts to prove she was living in a home she didn’t own.

“Mason,” Diane said, not taking her eyes off Patricia. “Come back to the table.”

Mason walked back, his face solemn. He sat down in his chair. Patricia didn’t move for a long time.

Then, very slowly, she sat back down in her own chair. Her hands were trembling, but she reached out and moved Mason’s place card back to its original spot.

The rest of the dinner was a blur. Nobody spoke much. The only sounds were the clinking of silverware against china and the occasional nervous cough from Wayne. Patricia didn’t look at Mason, but she didn’t ignore him either. She kept her eyes on her plate, her face tight and rigid.

We left early. I walked out to the car with Mason, holding his hand. He was quiet, but he was holding his head up. As we pulled away from the condo, I looked back at the building. The lights in the windows looked cold.

Diane didn’t say anything for the first ten miles. She just gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. Finally, she let out a long, shuddering breath.

“I didn’t want to do it like that,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“I know,” I said. “But he’s your boy, Diane. You did what you had to do.”