“You and the girls have had time. Now I need you to move out.”
I laughed. It came out cold.
He shrugged. “You’re an adult. Figure it out.”
I stared at him.
“You left us.”
He sighed like I was being difficult. “Don’t start that. I moved on.
That happens.”
Then he lowered his voice. “Listen. My girlfriend and I want to move in here, but she doesn’t like kids.
So either you leave quietly, or I take you to court and get custody. A judge might prefer a father over a 24-year-old girl pretending to be a parent.”
Then I smiled. Not because I was calm.
Because I was angry enough to think clearly. “Of course,” I said. “You’re right.
Come back tomorrow. I’ll have the documents ready.”
Then he left. I closed the door and stood there for a second.
My sister Maya was in the hallway. “Was that him?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he want?”
I looked toward the kitchen, where the younger ones were waiting for pancakes and trusting me to keep them safe. That day, I made calls.
