across the porch.
“You must have the wrong address,” I said calmly. “The people you disowned two years ago don’t live here anymore.”
“Please, Maya, don’t be like that,” my father pleaded, shuffling up the steps with a humiliated expression. “The house… the bank foreclosed on us yesterday. Chloe’s reckless spending caught up with us, our business lines of credit were frozen due to unpaid debts, and we have nowhere to go. We heard you bought a house. You have plenty of room. Can we please stay here for a
