Part 4
Kevin and Renata got back on a Thursday, sunburned, dragging suitcases full of duty-free wine. I met them in the driveway before they reached the door.
“We need to talk about the house,” I said, and handed Kevin the folder.
He read the letter standing there on the gravel, Renata reading over his shoulder. I watched his face do the thing I used to see on teenagers realizing an assignment was due today, not next week.
“You’re — what, evicting us?”
“I’m asking you to pay rent on a house you don’t own, same as anyone else would,” I said. “Or you’re welcome to look elsewhere. Either way, I’m done being unpaid staff in my own driveway.”
Renata started in about how “family doesn’t do this to family.” I let that sit in the air a second, because I’d thought the exact same thing three weeks earlier, standing in my kitchen with a chore list and no birthday card.
They signed the lease two weeks later. It isn’t warm between us yet, and I don’t expect it to be right away. But I don’t touch the gutters anymore unless I feel like it. I pick up my grandkids because I want to, not because it’s Tuesday. And whatever happens next year, my birthday won’t be free.
