Kristen’s voice cut in from somewhere behind him. “Put it on speaker.”
A second later Trevor was louder. “Mom. Tell these people to leave.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can and you will.”
“No,” I said. “They represent the
new owner.”
A chair scraped violently on his end. “The new what?”
“The new owner.”
“You sold my house?”
“I sold my property.”
“Your property? You gave that house to me!”
“I let you live there.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, Trevor,” I said softly. “It isn’t.”
For years I had imagined this conversation might happen one day. In the quieter versions, Trevor was embarrassed but not cruel. He apologized. He remembered something of the boy who used to hold my hand at job sites and ask why cranes didn’t
fall over. But after thirty slaps, fantasy had no place left to live.
Kristen came onto the line. “Gloria, this is insane. You can’t just sell our home without telling us.”
