Part 2: Moving Day
“Paige!” Mom snapped through the intercom. “I know you’re in there.”
I pressed the talk button.
“I am.”
Her expression shifted immediately.
“Good. Open the gate.”
“Why?”
She stared at the speaker as if I had spoken another language.
“Because we’re moving in.”
I glanced at the boxes stacked beside the truck.
“Who told you that you could move in?”
Mallory stepped forward, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Oh, come on. Don’t make this complicated. We’re family.”
I almost smiled.
Twelve years.
Twelve years without a birthday call, a Christmas card, or a single message asking whether I was alive.
But one afternoon at my gate, they had suddenly remembered the word family.
Mom lifted her chin.
“You have plenty of space. We need somewhere to stay while we get back on our feet.”
“Where are you staying now?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It seems relevant if you’re planning to move into my house.”
Grant walked up to the gate and examined the lock.
“Look, Paige, we’ve had a rough few months. Mallory and I thought we could stay here temporarily. The kids need stability.”
I looked at the three children sitting in the truck’s open side door.
The oldest girl, perhaps eleven, was watching me with frightened eyes.
The youngest boy clutched a stuffed dinosaur.
They weren’t responsible for what the adults had done.
I understood that.
But compassion for the children did not require surrendering my home to their parents.
“How long is temporarily?” I asked.
Grant shrugged.
“A few months. Maybe six.”
Mallory cut in.
“Mom thinks we should take the downstairs suite. The boys can share one room, and Sophie can have the other. Grant could use the workshop until we find a place.”
I stared at her.
She had already assigned the rooms.
She had already assigned my workshop.
She had already decided that the life I built belonged to her family whenever she needed it.
“Did you bring a lease?” I asked.
Mallory frowned.
“What?”
“An agreement. Anything showing that I invited you to live here?”
Mom’s face hardened.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m your mother.”
“And I’m the owner of this property.”
The silence that followed was almost satisfying.
Almost.
Because beneath my anger, a small, foolish part of me still wanted her to say something I had waited twelve years to hear.
I’m sorry.
I should never have put you out.
I should have protected you.
Instead, she said, “You owe me more respect than this.”
I took my hand off the intercom.
Then I remembered something.
Twelve years earlier, I had stood in the rain outside a grocery store and watched her drive away.
I remembered how desperately I had wanted her to turn around.
She hadn’t.
I pressed the button again.
“You need to leave.”
Mom blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“This is private property. You do not have permission to enter. Take your truck and go.”
Mallory laughed in disbelief.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
Her face reddened.
“You have a huge house! You have a business! We have three children!”
“And I built this life without your help.”
Mom’s mouth fell open.
Then she recovered and delivered the sentence she had probably rehearsed during the drive.
“We are the reason you exist, Paige. The least you could do is help your own family.”
I looked straight into the camera.
“No, Mom. You gave birth to me. You didn’t build my life.”
She began shouting.
I ended the intercom call.
For several seconds, I watched them argue among themselves on the monitor.
Then Grant walked to the gate and pulled on it.
He tried the latch.
He shook the bars.
Finally, he turned to Mallory and said something I couldn’t hear.
My security system recorded everything.
I saved the footage.
I had no intention of using it unless I had to.
But I had learned long ago that memories could be disputed.
Records were harder to rewrite.
They didn’t leave.
Instead, Mom sat on one of the moving boxes beside the gate and made a phone call.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang.
It was my aunt, Patricia.
“Paige, sweetheart, your mother says you’re refusing to help her.”
“I am refusing to let her move into my house without permission.”
“But she says you’ve got so much room.”
“I do.”
“And your sister is struggling.”
“I understand.”
“Then why won’t you help?”
I looked through my office window at the workshop, where my employees were finishing a set of custom cabinets for a local restaurant.
“Because helping someone doesn’t mean handing them control over everything you’ve worked for.”
Patricia sighed.
“Your mother says you became wealthy and forgot where you came from.”
I felt something inside me settle.
“No, Aunt Patricia. I remember exactly where I came from.”
I ended the call gently.
Then I went back to work.
For the next hour, I ignored the repeated calls.
At 4:37 p.m., my office manager, Rebecca, knocked on the door.
“Paige, there’s a woman at reception asking for you.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I stared at her.
“How did she get inside the property?”
“She came around to the employee entrance while the delivery driver was leaving. Security stopped her before she reached the building.”
I stood.
“Please ask her to wait outside the office. I’ll speak with her there.”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“Not yet. Just keep the doors secured.”
