A little while. The phrase floated into the room like a poison fog.
In my family, a little while meant as long as Vanessa wanted. A little while meant she would settle in and let time stretch around her like a blanket.
“What if I say no?” I asked, and my voice trembled in a way I hated.
There was a pause. A silence heavy with the sense that something was being measured.
Then my mother spoke, her tone turning cool, deliberate. “Then we may need to reconsider our rental arrangement. If you’re going to be difficult, perhaps we should charge you full market rate.”
It was said so casually, like she was offering a logical consequence.
But it was a threat. It was leverage. It was the reminder that my home was not entirely mine, because the people who owned the building also owned my childhood, my family ties, my sense of obligation.
