Either you support my sister or you get out of this apartment.”
That was the first thing I heard that Sunday morning before I had even finished my first cup of coffee. Mornings in my Germantown loft in Nashville were usually filled with the scent of fresh espresso and the sound of soft jazz.
But that day felt different as the sound of heavy suitcases banging against my hardwood floors echoed through the hallway. The first bag made the entryway table shake, and by the third one, I was standing in the kitchen doorway with my mug in hand.
Spencer was standing there with his arms crossed, looking at me with the smug confidence of a man who thought he had already won. “My sister is coming to live with us, and it is official,” he announced as if he were just giving me a weather report.
He did not ask for my opinion or even try to have a conversation about it first. I carefully set my coffee cup down on the marble counter to keep my hands from shaking.
