But now she was in my kitchen three or four days a week, and her comments got harder to ignore.
She’d run a finger along my bookshelf and look at it.
“This house would look so much better if someone actually knew how to take care of it.”
She’d walk into my kitchen after I got home from a twelve-hour shift, look at the dishes in the sink, and sigh.
“I don’t understand how you let things get like this.”
Once, I caught her in the den with a tape measure. Measuring the wall under the window.
“For curtains,” she said. “You need curtains.”
Once, I heard her on the phone in the guest room. She called it “my room.” Greg laughed when I told him. “She’s just settled in, babe.”
And once, when I was paying bills, I saw a deposit in our joint account I didn’t recognize. Twenty-one hundred dollars. The memo just said: D. For the house.
