I stopped at the front door, placed my hand on the brass knob I’d installed 15 years ago, turned it, pulled.
The heavy oak door swung open, and December air rushed in cold and clean and shocking. 40°, maybe less. The rectangle of darkness outside seemed to expand, swallowing the warm yellow light from inside. I stood in the doorway and turned to face the room. Everyone who is currently in this house and is not its owner, you have five minutes to leave. This is my house. I bought it in 1998. Michael, Amanda, take your things and go right now. Michael laughed. Actually laughed, the sound harsh and disbelieving. You’re joking.
But the guests were already standing, reaching for coats draped over chairbacks, mumbling apologies. Jason squeezed Michael’s shoulder. Man, we should probably go. No, sit down. He’s bluffing. Ignore him. Melissa was already at the door. Come on, Jason, come on. This is a family thing. Yeah, we’ll call you later. Jason followed his wife. They fled, all of them, within 90 seconds. David nodded awkwardly as he passed. Thanks… uh, sorry. The others filed out in a stream of uncomfortable silence, avoiding eye contact. The door stayed open, cold wind pouring through.
Then it was just the four of us. Michael remained standing at the table, but his confidence had cracks. You can’t just kick us out. We live here. I stayed at the door, December wind at my back. You live here as my guest. Guess I’m now asking to leave. Amanda finally spoke, her voice breaking. Dad, please. This is insane. I looked at my daughter. Our eyes met for the first time that night. Amanda, you have a choice. Make it. We’re not going anywhere. Michael’s defiance was returning. You’re a crazy old man.
