“Michael? Who’s at the door?”
His mother. Linda. Michael glanced at the phone in my hand.
“Who are you talking to?”
“The police.”
His expression changed instantly.
“You called the police?”
“You changed the locks.”
“Emily, hang up.”
“No.”
“This is between us.”
I faced the suitcase lying open beside my feet, one of my blouses half hanging out of it.
“You put my belongings in a public hallway.”
“You left me no choice.”
“No choice?”
“You haven’t been listening to me for months.”
“And changing the locks was supposed to improve communication?”
Linda appeared behind him, wearing my white bathrobe—the one Mom had given me for my thirtieth birthday. She folded her arms.
“Michael deserves some peace in his own home.”
“His own home?”
Michael muttered, “Mom, stay out of this.”
But Linda never stayed out of anything in her life.
“He lives here,” she said. “He contributes. He is your husband. You don’t get to disappear for fourteen hours a day and then come home acting like you’re some kind of landlord.”
