While I was putting groceries away, my phone rang.
Mom.
I let it go to voicemail.
She called again.
Then again.
Then my father.
Then Keaton.
Then Mom again.
By noon, I had six voicemails.
The first was sweet.
“Arden, honey, call me. We are not upset. We just need to talk about groceries.”
The second was tight.
“Arden, ignoring your mother is childish.”
The third was sharper.
“Your father is furious, and I am trying to protect you from that.”
The fourth was the one I saved in three separate places.
“Arden, listen to me carefully. This weekend is happening whether you like it or not. Your father has the spare key. We will be there Friday with the family. If that house is not ready, you are going to humiliate us in front of everyone, and I promise you will regret it. We gave you life. We gave you discipline. We taught you how to work. That house exists because of us. Do not test me.”
