“I don’t know who you’re turning into, but if you’re going to treat your own mother like an accountant, maybe you ought to stay in a hotel until your attitude gets better.”

“This is the house I grew up in,” I said.

“This is my house,” she said, jabbing a finger toward the kitchen window.

“Your brother lives here and helps me every single day.

If you can’t support this family without throwing a fit over two weeks, I don’t want you under this roof tonight.”

She spun on her heel and walked back toward the garage door, her slippers scraping over the rough gravel.

I stepped back, reached up, and slammed the trunk lid shut.