What was a conversation about grown adults clearing out my bedroom supposed to be about, if not ownership?

“Whose name do you think is on the property deed?” I asked him.

He stared, then waved a hand.

“That’s not the point.” “It is precisely the point.” My mother stepped between us, hands raised.

“Everyone’s getting too emotional.

Let’s not ruin Thanksgiving.” And I looked her dead in the eye and refused to let her dodge it.

“You carried your pregnant daughter’s clothes and keepsakes into a freezing garage three days after her husband’s funeral.

And you want to accuse me of ruining Thanksgiving?” She opened her mouth, and nothing came out, and she turned her face away.