Because they were family.
But as my eight-months-pregnant wife disappeared into the elevator with strangers caring more about her than the people inside our home, that word finally lost its power over me.
“Get out,” I said.
Teresa blinked. “Excuse me?”
“All four of you. Take your things and get out of my apartment.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m awake.”
Brittany laughed nervously. “Come on, Ethan. You don’t mean that.”
“I have never meant anything more.”
My mother’s face changed. The wounded expression vanished, replaced by something colder.
“You would throw your own mother onto the street because your wife had a stomach cramp?”
“She hasn’t eaten since this morning.”
“That is not my fault.”
“You watched her clean up after you.”
“She lives here for free!”
“She is my wife. This is her home. You are the guests.”
Teresa’s lips tightened.
Then she said something strange.
