The black folder lay open between us.
Ryan’s phone was still in his hand, but for the first time since his mother had ordered me out of the townhouse, he wasn’t looking at it.
Beatrice leaned slightly forward.
“What is that?” she asked.
I rested one finger on the first page.
“Rent payments.”
Her eyes moved down the columns.
She couldn’t absorb five years of records in a glance, but she recognized the repeated number immediately.
$5,600.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Ryan reached for the folder.
I kept my hand on it.
“Those came from my corporate accounts,” I said.
Beatrice gave a small, dismissive laugh.
“I’m sure you contributed.
Married couples share expenses.”
“No.
I didn’t contribute to the rent.
I paid the rent.”
The kitchen went silent.
Ryan’s face tightened.
Beatrice looked at him first, not me.
“Ryan?”
He cleared his throat.
I watched something unpleasant happen behind his eyes.
He was calculating how much he could admit without destroying the version of himself his mother preferred.
“Her company has been handling the housing payment,” he finally said.
I almost admired the wording.
Handling.
As though an accounting department had accidentally adopted us.
I pulled another page from the folder.
“For sixty months.”
Ryan looked down.
Five years at $5,600 a month came to $336,000.
Beatrice’s fingers closed around her teacup.
“But Ryan pays for other things,” she said quickly.
I looked at him.
He didn’t answer.
That silence was different from the one the previous morning.
Yesterday, his silence had protected his mother from discomfort.
Today, it protected him from facts.
Beatrice straightened.
“Fine.
So you’ve paid more than I realized.
That doesn’t change what I said.
His brother needs the space.”
There it was.
Even with the numbers sitting directly in front of her, she still believed she was the person in the room with the power to decide who stayed and who left.
“I agree,” I said.
Ryan looked up sharply.
Beatrice blinked.
“You do?”
“Yes.
You asked me to move out by the end of the month.
