She yelled like a woman who had rehearsed every line in her car on the way over. She had used the key again. The copied one she swore she didn’t have. I had been on the couch with my feet up, trying to follow the bed-rest instructions taped to the fridge, when the lock clicked and the three of them walked in as if they owned the place. My goal had been simple: stay calm. Keep my blood pressure down. Do not give Sandra the scene she wanted. Do not make Marcus worry while he was half a world away.
But then Monica started opening drawers. Then Brett took my wallet. Then Sandra found the money. “You’re stealing from us while he’s gone,” Sandra said. “From you?” I whispered. “My son sends that money home.” “To his home,” I said before I could stop myself. Her eyes narrowed. That was the moment I knew I had made a mistake. Sandra took one step closer. The overhead light caught the silver in her hair and the cross at her throat. She wore that cross every day, big enough for everyone to notice, heavy enough to swing when she raised her arm. “You think this is your home because you got knocked up?” she said. “You think carrying those babies makes you family?”
