“She was helping me plan Christmas,” Tiffany said.
“With Marco?”
Tiffany had no answer.
I stayed silent. That was the hardest part. I let the papers speak for me.
Paper cannot be called emotional. Paper cannot be accused of overreacting.
Then Tiffany tried the tactic I knew was coming.
“Kevin, this is what she does,” she said. “She creates drama so everyone has to manage her feelings.”
I looked at my son.
For five years, I had watched that strategy work on him. Whenever evidence appeared, Tiffany attacked the person holding it.
But this time, Kevin kept reading.
“Were you trying to move us into this house?” he asked.
Tiffany hesitated.
“Eventually, yes,” she admitted. “Your mother lives alone in a big house. We have children. It makes sense.”
I stood up.
“Tiffany,” I said, “you are not hosting Christmas here. Your family is not coming here. And you will not use my kitchen, my table, or my late husband’s home as the background for your plan.”
