I texted Cassandra.
“Hey. Wanna grab lunch tomorrow? Just us?”
“Wait. Really? You’re not mad?” Cassandra asked, suprised.
“No. I’ve been thinking. We should talk,” I replied cryptically.
She invited me in the café in a beige trench coat and too much lipstick.
“I’m so glad you reached out. I know it’s been tense, but I think we’re finally on the same page.”
I smiled. “I think so too.”
We ordered. I let her talk. About the house. About “renovations.” About how hard it is being the “only one who steps up.”
I waited until her plate was half-finished before I said, “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe Mom and Dad do need help. Some structure.”
Her eyes lit up. “Exactly! That’s what I’ve been trying to say!”
“I even talked to a couple of realtors,” I said, pulling out my phone. “If we sell the house, we could put the money toward their long-term care. Maybe even help you and Nathan get your own place.”
She leaned in. “I knew you’d come around.”
“Also — I recorded this whole conversation.”
Then I stood up, left a twenty on the table, and walked out without looking back.
