“You think this is funny? You think you can humiliate us because of one little argument?”
“One little argument,” I repeated.
Brandon snapped, “You embarrassed me in front of my friends.”
I touched my split lip with my tongue. It had swollen overnight. Every word reminded me of him.
“I embarrassed you?”
“You came into my house acting like you owned the place.”
“I did.”
Another silence.
This one was different. Not shocked. Cornered.
Brandon spoke more carefully. “Dad, listen. Whatever this is, undo it. I’ll talk to you. We’ll figure this out.”
“There is nothing to figure out.”
“You can’t kick us out.”
“I’m not kicking you out.”
“Then what do you call this?”
“A transfer of ownership.”
Amber laughed bitterly. “You’re enjoying this.”
I looked down at my knuckles, scarred and thick from decades of work. Hands like mine had signed payroll checks, lifted lumber, steadied grieving shoulders, held my wife’s fingers while cancer took her piece by piece. Hands like mine had built Brandon’s world.
