Grace knew exactly which buttons to press.
Guilt.
Duty.
Debt.
Fear.
“You are not an outsider,” Harold said.
“Clearly I am.”
“You are a guest.”
Grace reacted as if he had insulted her.
“A guest?”
“Yes.”
“In my own son’s house?”
“Our house,” I said.
Her eyes snapped toward me.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“You removed my bedroom door, so I think I’m involved.”
Harold actually smiled.
Grace noticed.
That made things worse.
“Fine.”
She marched into the guest room.
Without a door, we had a perfect view as
she dragged a suitcase from under the bed.
Harold sighed.
“Mom.”
“No.”
She threw the suitcase onto the mattress.
“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”
“Good.”
Everything stopped.
Even Harold looked slightly surprised by how quickly he had answered.
Grace turned slowly.
“What?”
Harold straightened.
“I said good. Because apparently I haven’t been clear enough before.”
Her lips parted.
“If you decide to leave because I asked you to respect one basic boundary, that is your choice.”
“You would throw your own mother out in the middle of the night?”
“I didn’t throw you out.”
“You took my door!”
“You took ours first.”
“That was a joke!”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“You’re being cruel.”
“No. I’m being consistent.”
Grace stared at him.
Then laughed bitterly.
“Consistent.”
She turned to me.
“You must be proud.”
I said nothing.
Not because I had nothing to say.
Because Harold needed to say this himself.
For
once, he was.
Grace began packing angrily.
And because Grace normally folded everything perfectly, the fact that she was throwing clothes into the suitcase told me exactly how furious she was.
Harold lifted the guest-room door.
“I’ll reinstall this tomorrow.”
Grace spun around.
“So I’m expected to sleep exposed?”
Harold simply stared at her.
