“A landlord charges rent,” I corrected gently. “You haven’t paid a dime in 8 months. Close the the door on your way out.”
He stood there for a long moment, his fist clenched, before turning and slamming the door behind him.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly.
It hurt.
He was my son, the boy I had raised, the child I had comforted through scraped knees and broken hearts. But the man standing in my study wasn’t that boy anymore.
He was a user, and I refused to be used.
I picked up my phone and dialed a number I had saved earlier that week.
“Hello, this is Marcus Realy.”
A cheerful voice answered.
“Hi.” I smiled into the receiver. “I need someone to come out and do a home valuation. I’m putting my house on the market.”
Friday morning, Sarah tried a different tactic. She decided to play the victim.
