like garbage waiting to be collected.
“How long have you been planning this?” I asked.
Dylan took another sip of bourbon.
“Long enough.”
Dad leaned forward.
“Don’t turn this into a scene. You’re twenty-eight years old, Mara. You’ve had plenty of time to establish yourself.”
The absurdity nearly made me laugh.
I had stayed because I believed preserving our childhood home was something we were doing together.
Apparently, I had been the only one who thought so.
“All right,” I said.
Mom blinked.
“All right?”
“I’ll go.”
Dylan lowered his
