PART 1

My father never held “family talks” on Sunday afternoons unless he had already made up his mind. Sundays belonged to golf, the newspaper spread across the dining table, and football commentary blasting from the television. So when he called all of us into the living room, I knew he wasn’t asking for opinions. He wanted witnesses.

I sat on the same scratchy floral couch that had been there since I was twelve, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold in my hands. The room smelled of pot roast, lemon cleaner, and my mother’s old powdery perfume.

Dad stood by the fireplace like he was about to present a business report. Mom sat stiffly in her armchair, twisting the edge of her cardigan. My older brother Eric paced near the mantel, jaw tight, while his wife Shannon sat beside Mom with both hands resting over her small but obvious baby bump.

No one had said it yet, but the baby was the reason we were all there.

“Thank you all for coming,” Dad began, as if any of us had been given a choice. “We need to discuss the downtown apartment.”

My stomach tightened.

He didn’t say the address at first, but I saw it immediately in my mind: 1247 Westbrook Avenue, the old red-brick building with the crooked silver mailbox and the checkerboard tile in the entryway. Grandpa’s building.

My building.

Dad cleared his throat. “As you know, the two-bedroom unit at 1247 Westbrook has been in this family since your grandfather bought the building in 1987.”

He looked from me to Eric, like we might have forgotten the story Grandpa told a hundred times. How he saved every spare dollar to buy “a piece of the city.” How he once told Dad that real wealth was something that earned money while you slept.

I knew the story. I also knew every creaking stair, every drafty window, every old radiator in that building. I had lived there for four years.

“I’ve lived there for four years, Dad,” I said, already sensing where this was going.

“Exactly,” he replied, as if that proved his point. “You’ve had four years in a two-bedroom unit, paying utilities and a small fee to the family trust that technically owns it.”

Technically.

That one word nearly made me laugh.

He folded his hands behind his back. “Eric and Shannon are expecting their first child. Their current one-bedroom is too small. Meanwhile, Cassie, you have two bedrooms all to yourself.”

I placed my coffee on the table carefully because my fingers were starting to shake.

“I use the second bedroom as my office,” I said. “I work from home three days a week.”

“You can work from a coffee shop,” Mom said quickly, as if she had solved everything. “Young people do that all the time.”

“I manage a team,” I answered. “I take private calls. I need a quiet space.”

Dad talked over me. “Eric has a family starting. The apartment makes more sense for them. We’ve decided you’ll move out by the end of the month. Four weeks should be enough time to find somewhere else.”

For a moment, the words didn’t feel real. They sounded like something happening to someone else.

“You’ve decided?” I repeated.

“The family has decided,” Dad corrected. “We have to think about what’s best for everyone.”

Eric finally stopped pacing and leaned against the mantel with that smug little expression I hated.

“Come on, Cass. Don’t make this hard.”

My head turned toward him.

“Hard?”

“You’re single. No kids. Good job,” he said, counting each reason on his fingers like evidence. “You can rent anywhere. Shannon and I need a nursery, and we can’t afford market price for a two-bedroom.”

“And I can?” I asked.

Shannon’s face flushed. “You make more than we do. Eric told me about your salary. You’re doing fine.”

My jaw clenched.

Eric had never asked what I made. I had never told him. The idea that he and Shannon had sat around discussing my income like it was family property made heat rush through my chest.

“My finances are not a family topic,” I said carefully.

“When family resources are involved, they are,” Dad snapped. “The apartment belongs to the family trust. Your grandfather wanted it used for family needs. Right now, Eric and Shannon need it more.”

“Did anyone actually read what Grandpa wrote in the trust documents?” I asked.