PART 9 – My Mother Finally Asked Why I Had Left, But Her First Concern Was Still What My Father Would Have to Explain

The next morning, I woke to several missed calls.

Three were from Mom.

One was from Dad.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the screen.

For a moment, I considered calling her back.

Not because I wanted to discuss the furniture.

I wanted to know whether she had finally read my letter.

I wanted to know whether she had understood even one sentence.

I made coffee first.

Then I sat at the wooden table and returned her call.

She answered almost immediately.

"Victoria?"

"Hi, Mom."

Her voice sounded tired.

"Why are you doing this to us?"

I closed my eyes.

There it was.

Not where are you?

Not are you safe?

Not have you settled into your new place?

Why are you doing this to us?

"Mom, I moved out. I left you a letter."

"We found the letter."

"Then you know why I left."

She sighed.

"Your father is extremely upset."

I looked at the folder beside my laptop.

"That's not my responsibility anymore."

There was silence.

I had never spoken to her like that.

At least, not without immediately apologizing afterward.

She seemed to be searching for something to say.

"Victoria, this house has been our home for years."

"I know."

"You can't just remove things and leave us like that."

"I removed my belongings."

"But we used those things."

I looked toward the kitchen.

The coffee machine was gone.

The small refrigerator was gone.

My furniture was gone.

"Using something doesn't make it yours, Mom."

She became quiet.

Then she changed the subject.

"Your father wants everything returned."

I felt my shoulders tighten.

"Have you spoken to my lawyer?"

"Why would we need lawyers? We're family."

I almost laughed.

Family.

That word had been used to explain nearly every financial responsibility I had accepted.

It had never been used when they decided I couldn't come to Italy.

"Mom, you involved the police. This isn't just a family disagreement anymore."

She didn't answer immediately.

Then she said something I hadn't expected.

"Your father didn't think it would become this serious."

I stared at the table.

"He reported me."

"He was angry."

I let the silence remain.

I wanted her to hear how weak that explanation sounded.

Finally, she said she needed to speak to Dad.

I told her I had to return to work.

We ended the call.

I sat for another minute.

My coffee was getting cold again.

I looked at the phone.

I had hoped the conversation would make me feel better.

It didn't.

But it confirmed something.

Even now, Mom was trying to manage Dad's feelings rather than acknowledge mine.

I returned to work.

That afternoon, I sent the latest messages to my lawyer.

He asked me to keep the communication organized.

I created another digital folder.

I named it Correspondence.

Then I saved the call notes and the messages I had received.

I didn't want to forget anything.

A few hours later, Lily contacted me.

Her message was longer than the earlier ones.

She said I had embarrassed the family.

She said their return from Italy had been ruined.

She said Mom had been crying.

Then she asked how I could take things that everybody had used.

I read it twice.

I wanted to ask whether she remembered who had bought them.

I wanted to ask whether she remembered how many times I had covered her car payment.

Instead, I closed the message.

I wasn't going to turn another conversation into a list of expenses.

I had already spent enough years proving that my contributions were real.

That evening, I prepared dinner.

The rosemary container stood beside the stove.

I sprinkled some over the chicken and placed the dish in the oven.

The smell reminded me of the Sunday dinner.

For a moment, I missed the familiar kitchen.

Then I remembered how that evening had ended.

I sat at my own table and ate quietly.

Nobody interrupted.

Nobody asked me to transfer money.

Nobody complained about the cost of anything.

I washed my plate.

Then I went to bed.

Click here to continue reading: PART 10: My Father Wanted His Old Living Room Back, While I Was Finally Learning What It Meant to Have a Home of My Own