The First Thing I Heard Turning Into My Own Driveway Was A Sound That Did Not Belong There

The last page in that folder was the mortgage on the house they were sitting in. I had bought it eight years earlier and never transferred the title, and the agreement they signed at the time allowed me to require repayment or sale on written notice. I did not have to say anything else.

I gave them one choice. Sign a restitution agreement covering the damage and the card, or I file the forgery report and call the note. My mother said I would not do it to my own parents. I said I already had.

They signed. The lake house was rebuilt by summer and I paid for the sunroom myself, in glass, exactly as it had been. Sutton has not spoken to me in five years. Priya has, and their son knows me, and I have made my peace with that being the shape of it.

My parents still live in that house. I still hold the title. They pay a modest amount monthly and it clears every time.

They said family should use what family has, and they meant it in one direction only. I stopped being the thing my family spent. The house on the lake is mine, and so, finally, is the rest of it.

Aria Lexicon is the pen name of the writer and editor behind The Daily Signal, a site for original short fiction about families, grudges, awkward neighbors and the small decisions that turn into big ones. Every story is invented; every character is made up. When She isn't writing, She's reading other people's stories and trying to figure out why the good ones work.

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