“You need to move out,” my mother declared right when I was still biting into my Christmas turkey. I answered with only one sentence: “Really?” Perhaps my mother had forgotten that I was the one who paid the rent and all the bills. The next morning, I quietly packed my things and left the house without saying another word.
Maybe my mother had forgotten that part. Or maybe she’d never cared. She didn’t flinch. “You need to move out,” she repeated, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder instead of on my face. “We’ve been talking. Tonight is your last night here.” At the head of the table sat my mother, Bernice, carving the turkey…
