The family meeting was called for Sunday afternoon, which should have been my first warning.
My father doesn’t “do” Sunday afternoons. Sundays are for golf, for his newspaper spread out across the dining table, for watching pregame commentary with the volume just a little too loud. If he’s interrupting that routine, it’s not because he wants input. It’s because he wants an audience.
I sit on my parents’ floral couch—the scratchy one that’s been in the living room since I was twelve—cradling a mug of coffee that’s already gone lukewarm. The room smells like pot roast, lemon cleaner, and the faint powdery perfume my mother has worn for as long as I can remember.
Dad stands near the fireplace like he’s about to give a quarterly report. My mom perches on the edge of her armchair, fingers twisted in the hem of her cardigan. My older brother Eric paces, restless energy coiled tight in the way he keeps clenching his jaw. His wife, Shannon, sits very straight next to Mom, both hands resting on her small but unmistakable baby bump.
No one has said it out loud yet, but the pregnancy is the gravitational center of the room. Everything we do or say lately bends toward it.
“Thank you all for coming,” Dad begins, like we had a choice. His voice has that smooth, practiced cadence he uses at work. “We need to discuss the downtown apartment situation.”
My stomach drops.
The downtown apartment. He doesn’t even use the address at first, but I can see it clearly: the red brick building at 1247 Westbrook, the narrow entryway with the old checkerboard tile, the slightly crooked silver mailbox with “Morrison” stenciled on it. Grandpa’s building.
My building.
Dad clears his throat. “As you all know, the two-bedroom unit at 1247 Westbrook has been in our family since your grandfather bought the building in 1987.”
He glances at me, then at Eric, as if we’ve both forgotten the story we grew up hearing: the way Grandpa talked about scrimping and saving to buy “a piece of the city,” how he’d dragged Dad to the signing when Dad was still in college, telling him, Real wealth is something that pays you while you sleep.
I know all of that. I know every creaky stair and every drafty window in that building. I’ve been living there for four years.
I take a sip of coffee I don’t want. The mug rattles faintly against its saucer.
“I’ve lived there for four years, Dad,” I say, because I already hate where this is going.
“Exactly.” He says it like that length of time is an indictment. “You’ve been in the two-bedroom for four years now, paying utilities and a small monthly fee to the family trust that technically owns it.”
Technically. I almost choke on the word.
He folds his hands behind his back. “Eric and Shannon are expecting their first child.” He gestures toward Shannon’s stomach, and her mouth twists into a nervous little smile. “They need more space than their current one-bedroom can provide. Meanwhile, Cassie, you have two bedrooms all to yourself.”
I set the mug down on the coffee table, carefully, because my fingers have gone cold and shaky. “I use the second bedroom as a home office,” I remind him. “I work remotely three days a week.”
“You can work from a coffee shop,” Mom interjects briskly, like she’s solving a minor logistics issue. “Young people do that all the time. Laptops and headphones and whatnot.”
“I manage a whole team,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “I’m on calls, I need privacy, I—”
“Eric has a family starting,” Dad presses on, steamrolling right over me. “The apartment makes more sense for them. We’ve decided you’ll move out by the end of the month. That gives you four weeks to find something else.”
The words don’t make sense at first. They sound like a line from a show I’m half-watching, something that’s happening to some other woman unlucky enough to be related to these people.
“You’ve decided,” I repeat, because it’s the only part I can grab onto.
“The family has decided,” Dad corrects smoothly. “We have to think about what’s best for everyone.”
Eric stops pacing and leans an arm on the mantel, that familiar smug expression settling over his features like a mask he’s practiced. “Come on, Cass. Don’t make this difficult.”
My head whips toward him. “Difficult?”
“You’re single. No kids. Good job.” He ticks off each item on his fingers like he’s presenting evidence. “You can rent anywhere. Shannon and I need the space for the nursery, and we can’t afford market rate for a two-bedroom.”
“And I can?” I ask.
“You make more than we do,” Shannon pipes up, cheeks flushing when all eyes swing to her. “Eric told me about your salary. You’re doing fine.”
My jaw actually aches as I clamp it shut.
Eric has never asked me what I make. I certainly never told him. The thought of him sitting at their cramped kitchen table, speculating about my income with his wife like it’s a fun game—Guess Cassie’s salary!—makes something hot and electric spark in my chest.
“My finances,” I say carefully, “are not up for family discussion.”
“When it affects family resources, they are,” Dad replies, his tone sharpening. “The apartment belongs to the family trust. Your grandfather intended it to serve the family’s needs. Right now, Eric and Shannon need it most.”
“Did anyone,” I ask slowly, “actually check what Grandpa wrote in the trust documents?”
Mom waves a hand. “Your father manages the trust. He knows what’s appropriate.”
“I’d still like to see the actual documents,” I say.
“Cassie, don’t be difficult.” Dad’s voice drops to that warning register that used to stop me mid-tantrum when I was eight. “This is already decided. Eric and Shannon will move in November first. You need to make arrangements.”
I stand up. My legs feel strange, like they’re made of something hollow.
“All right,” I say, because picking a fight in this room has never once ended with me winning. “Then I’d like to formally request copies of the trust documents, the building deed, and any paperwork establishing the family’s authority to terminate my residency.”
