It was exactly 7:00 a.m. on a Tuesday, and my kitchen in Brooklyn didn’t smell like coffee.
It smelled like surface cleaner. My daughter-in-law Sloan had decided, without consulting anyone, that my drip coffee maker was unhygienic, and had banished it to a cabinet. In its place sat a gleaming espresso pod machine that she hadn’t bothered to show me how to use.
I sat down at the kitchen table, the one my late husband Warren had built with his own hands, and watched Sloan tap at her iPad while my son Gavin stared at his phone.
“Elaine,” Sloan said, not glancing up. “We ran the numbers. Since my mom needs help paying for her home health aide now, and inflation is hitting everyone, we need to restructure the household finances. Starting next month, you’ll need to pay $800 in rent for your room.”
I set down my mug.
This was my house. I had let Gavin and Sloan move in two years earlier when they were drowning in debt, giving them the entire second floor while I took the smaller bedroom downstairs. I had not charged them a dollar.
