I spent $480,000 building my parents a mountain ho…

“What,” I repeated, louder this time, “is this?”

The couple inside the entry turned toward us. The woman still had one hand on the pantry door. The man looked like he wanted to disappear into the coat closet.

Then my mother appeared in the foyer. She saw my face and stopped. And what hit me hardest was that she didn’t look guilty first.

She looked annoyed. “You should have called before driving up,” she said. That nearly made me laugh.

I looked past her at the console table I had ordered from a maker in Boone, the one with the iron base and walnut top. There were glossy listing sheets fanned across it, neatly stacked beside a bowl of cedar cones. “You listed the house?” I said.

My father came out of the great room with one hand in his pocket, calm in that deliberate way he used when he thought emotion was a bargaining weakness. “We were going to tell you.”

“No,” I said. “You weren’t.”

My mother crossed her arms.

“Elena, don’t be dramatic. We’re simplifying.”