Chapter 3Seven Houses Of Empty Promises

I turned to head toward my room, but my mother grabbed my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman who claimed to have a weak heart.

"Myra, please! You're just upset. If you think I'm lying, I'll call the manager right now! I'll prove it!"

She was fumbling with her phone, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. I just shook my head.

"Mom, do you remember what you told me the day I graduated?"

I’d had an offer. A junior executive track in Chicago. Forty-five thousand to start, with a clear path to six figures. My mother had sat me down and told me that the city would swallow me whole. She said that if I came home, I’d have a million dollars in real estate in my name before I was twenty-five.

I wanted my own space so badly. My current room was a converted pantry with no windows. When it rained, the walls felt fuzzy with moisture. My bed was the same twin-sized frame I’d had since I was ten. My feet literally hung off the end.

She’d used the houses to stop me from going to Chicago. She’d used them to stop me from taking that study abroad program in London. She’d used them to keep me small, keep me local, and keep me available to drive her to her "appointments."

She wasn't afraid of me being unsafe. She was afraid of being alone.

"You lied to get me back here," I said, the words tasting like ash. "I lost the career I wanted. I lost five years of my youth. And there is no house, Mom. There never was."

Slap.

The sound echoed through the small house. My father’s hand was still raised, his face livid. "Your mother loves you more than life itself, and you're talking to her like she's some kind of criminal over a piece of property? You're a selfish brat!"

"Robert, don't! Myra, honey, are you okay?" My mother reached for my face, her eyes wide with faux-horror. I flinched away from her touch.

She stood there, her hand suspended in the air. Finally, she whispered, "Fine. If the house is all you care about, I'll take you to the lawyer's office tomorrow. We'll start the deed transfer. Just... let's all calm down. Please?"

She even ran to the safe and pulled out a stack of folders. Title deeds. Property surveys. She laid them out like a peace offering.

I looked at the red mark on my face in the hallway mirror, then at my father’s cold eyes and my mother’s desperate, manipulative smile.

I didn't say a word. I went into my room and locked the door.

The next morning was Saturday. I was woken up by a sharp rapping on the wood.

"Myra? Your aunts are here for brunch," my mother called out.

When I opened the door, the living room was an ambush. Five of them sat there—the "Council of Karens"—holding mimosas and judgment. My Aunt Sarah spoke first.

"Myra, your mother tells us you're trying to force her to sell the family assets? At her age? With her heart the way it is?"

Aunt Janie tapped her long nails against the property folders on the table. "I thought we raised you better than this. Demanding a deed transfer like a common thief? It’s incredibly greedy, Myra."

My mother sat in the corner, head bowed, dabbing at her dry eyes.

"This is what happens when girls get too much education," Aunt Martha huffed. "They start thinking they're smarter than the people who gave them life. It’ll all be yours eventually, Myra. Why are you in such a hurry for her to die?"

I looked at my mother. She peeked through her fingers, checking to see if the pressure was working.

"I'm not being mean, Myra," she sniffled. "I just worry. There are so many scammers out there. I wanted to keep the titles in my name to protect you. I'll give them to you when you get married. I can even write a letter of intent."

"No letters!" Aunt Sarah barked. "She's your daughter, not a business associate!"

"You should be grateful," Janie added. "Most girls your age are drowning in rent. You have a guaranteed inheritance. Just apologize to your mother and stop this nonsense."

I realized then that this was just another layer of the trap. The "lawyer's office" would never happen. There would always be another aunt, another "heart scare," another reason to wait.

I looked at my mother and smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who had finally stopped feeling the weight of the hook in their jaw.

"You're right, Mom," I said. "I was wrong."

My mother’s face lit up. She stood up to hug me. "Oh, thank God. I knew you'd understand, honey."

"I was wrong," I repeated, stepping back so her arms hit empty air. "I was wrong to believe a single word you’ve ever said."

I reached behind the door and pulled out the suitcase I’d packed in the middle of the night.

"I'm leaving. For good."

My mother’s smile didn't just fade—it curdled.