Tyson shot up from the couch.
“You can’t do that!” he snapped. “We live here!”
I looked at him calmly.
“No,” I said. “You stay here. There’s a difference.”
“This is my house!” he barked, louder now, trying to reclaim control.
I let that sit for a second.
Then I said the one thing I had rehearsed in my head for 23 days.
“No, Tyson. This is my house. Always has been. And I finally remembered that.”
Silence again.
Heavy this time.
Unavoidable.
Shelby looked back down at the paper, reading faster now, flipping to the second page.
“That’s… that’s a repayment ledger,” she said, confused. “What is this?”
“That,” I said, “is every dollar I lent you over the past three years.”
Tyson laughed harshly.
“You’re kidding, right? That wasn’t a loan—that was help. Family helps each other.”
I nodded slowly.
“Yes,” I said. “Family does help each other. But family also doesn’t try to sell a house that isn’t theirs.”
That hit.
Hard.
Tyson froze.
His friends looked at each other.
Shelby’s head snapped up.
