Jason’s birthday gift.
Call her.”
I held the screen out.
Dad closed his eyes.
A woman nearby stepped forward.
I recognized her vaguely as Audrey Keller, one of Dad’s former colleagues.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Did you say you’re Elena Marlowe?”
“Yes.”
Her face brightened with recognition.
“Our foundation worked with the county on the Northgate Library renovation.
You led that project.”
I nodded.
“For eighteen months.”
Audrey looked at Dad.
“Robert, your daughter runs the county library system?”
Dad’s face reddened.
“Apparently I haven’t been paying enough attention.”
Jason gave a bitter little laugh.
“Apparently none of us have.”
I turned toward him.
“Don’t make this another competition.”
His expression hardened defensively.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.
I know that look.”
He opened his mouth, then stopped.
“This isn’t about whether my career is better than yours,” I continued.
“It isn’t about whose salary is higher or who owns the bigger house.
I never wanted to beat you.
I wanted my parents to know where I lived.”
Jason looked down.
The anger left his face.
Grandma Patricia slipped her hand around mine.
“I knew.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged gently.
“You told me.”
Those three words hurt more than all the excuses.
You told me.
That was all it had required.
Grandma knew that my upstairs guest-room radiator knocked when the weather got cold.
She knew the maple tree dropped branches during storms.
She knew I’d spent four summers restoring the original oak staircase because replacing it felt wrong.
She knew the name of my deputy director and which branch had suffered a burst pipe the previous winter.
My life had never been hidden.
Someone simply had to care enough to listen.
Dad’s shoulders sank.
Then his expression changed.
“Elena, there’s something your mother and I were planning to discuss with you after tonight.”
Mom immediately said, “Robert, not now.”
I looked between them.
“What?”
Dad hesitated.
“We’re putting the house on the market.”
That part I knew.
After retirement, my parents planned to move to a condo outside Sarasota.
“There are contractors to coordinate,” he continued.
“Furniture to sell.
Paperwork, inspections, appointments.”
Something cold moved through me.
“And?”
Mom clasped her hands.
“We were hoping you could take the lead on it.”
I stared at her.
Jason shifted uncomfortably.
Dad added, “Your schedule is more flexible than your brother’s.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then the absurdity became almost beautiful.
They didn’t know my title.
They didn’t know I managed eleven branches and more than a hundred employees.
They didn’t know I’d owned a home for nearly a decade.
But when they needed the reliable child to handle months of tedious work, they had remembered me perfectly.
“No,” I said.
Mom blinked.
“No?”
“I won’t be managing your move.”
Dad frowned.
“Elena, we’re your parents.”
“Exactly.
And I am your daughter.
Not the family administrative assistant.”
“Nobody called you that.”
“You never had to.”
I picked up my purse.
Mom reached for me.
“Please don’t leave like this.”
I stepped back before she could touch my arm.
“How should I leave, Mom? Grateful that you finally learned where I live because Grandma accidentally mentioned property taxes?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
For years, that would have ended the conversation.
Her tears had always become my
