My dad forgot to hang up. I heard every word: «She’s a burden.» I stayed quiet….

She’d been my champion, my safe place. At the reading of her will, everyone was shocked except perhaps me when her attorney announced she’d left her house to me, not my parents. The property at 1842 Magnolia Drive, valued at approximately $850,000, I leave to my granddaughter, Emma Davis, who has shown the determination and responsibility to appreciate its value, the lawyer read as my parents’ faces darkened.

The will was explicit, the property was fully in my name with no conditions or co-ownership. My parents were left a modest cash inheritance, which they quickly spent on a new car and various electronics. From the moment the deed transferred to my name, my parents began referring to it as the family home rather than Emma’s house.

What started as occasional comments about when we renovate the kitchen gradually morphed into full renovation plans drawn up without my input. All while I paid every bill, every tax payment, every repair cost. We should really replace these countertops, my mother would say, running her hand across the granite I had just paid to install.

I don’t like that pink color in the living room, my father would announce, completely disregarding that I had carefully selected it to match my new furniture. Despite my growing success as a realtor, I was now making a comfortable six-figure income. My parents treated me like a teenager playing house.

When I would attempt to establish boundaries, their response was always the same, family doesn’t have boundaries. But somehow those lack of boundaries only worked in one direction. After about three years of this arrangement, my parents announced they were planning a three-month European vacation, something they’d always dreamed of doing.

What they didn’t announce was how they intended to pay for it. We can use the equity in the house, my father casually mentioned one Sunday dinner. You mean my house? I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

The house that’s only in my name. Don’t be selfish, Emma, my mother chimed in. It’s the family home, your grandmother would have wanted us all to benefit from it.

I refused to take out a home equity loan for their vacation, but I did make the mistake of offering to help them with some of the expenses since I knew they couldn’t afford it otherwise. Before I knew it, I was funding nearly the entire trip, flights, accommodations, spending money, all while they complained that the hotels I booked weren’t centrally located enough. The day before they left for their grand European tour, I overheard my mother on the phone with her sister.

Of course Emma’s paying, it’s the least she can do considering we let her keep the house. Let me keep my own house? The house my grandmother specifically left to me? I should have recognized the red flag for what it was, but I still desperately wanted their approval. If only I had known what was coming.

I might have changed the locks before they ever left for Paris. It was a Tuesday afternoon in June when everything changed. My parents had been in Europe for about 6 weeks at that point, currently enjoying Paris according to their social media posts.

I was at home after showing properties all morning when I remembered that the kitchen sink had been leaking before they left. Since they were returning in just a few weeks, I decided to get it fixed. I needed to ask my father where he had put the warranty information for the faucet he had installed last year, one of the few home improvements he had actually completed himself.

I dialed his international number and waited through the series of clicks and beeps that signaled the overseas connection. Hello? My father’s voice sounded distant, the connection slightly delayed. Hey dad, quick question about the kitchen faucet warranty.

Do you remember where you put the paperwork? It’s starting to leak. He sighed heavily into the phone. It’s in the filing cabinet in the den, second drawer, under kitchen.

Why can’t this wait until we get back? Because water is currently damaging the cabinet beneath the sink, I explained, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. I just need to call the company and see if it’s covered. Fine, fine, he muttered.

Your mother and I are about to go to dinner. Some nice place near the Eiffel Tower. Sounds great.

How’s Paris? I asked, trying to be polite despite his attitude. Expensive, he replied curtly. Look, I’ve got to go.

We’ll talk later. Okay, thanks for the information. Enjoy your dinner.

I heard some rustling, then what sounded like my father putting the phone in his pocket. He hadn’t hung up properly. I was about to end the call from my end when I heard his voice, now muffled but still audible.

Who was that? My mother’s voice. Just Emma complaining about something in the house again. My father’s voice was clearer now, as if he’d taken the phone out of his pocket, but still thought the call had ended.

What now? My mother sounded annoyed. Something about the kitchen sink. I swear, all she does is find problems with that house.

I should have hung up. I knew I should have hung up, but something kept my finger hovering over the end call button, unable to press it. I don’t understand why your mother left her that house in the first place, my mother continued.

We’re her parents. It should have gone to us. Well, once we’re back…