CHAPTER 143: It Is My House

I bark a laugh. “This has nothing to do with insecurity, Mike. It’s about boundaries. Respect. You don’t waltz in here and make yourself at home like nothing happened. You’re a guest, remember that.”

“Guest,” he mutters, shaking his head, and then louder, “Funny, considering this used to be my home too.”

“Well, it isn’t anymore,” I say, holding my ground. “You lost the right to call it that when you left, remember?”

He laughs, hollow and bitter. “Right, because that’s what you do, huh? Hold everything over people’s heads, make them earn back your approval. You want me to grovel, Dad? Will that make you feel better?”

“Grovel?” I scoff. “No. I just expect a little decency. And maybe a shirt.”

He rolls his eyes, then stands, hands on his hips, his face twisted in a smirk that’s too much like mine for comfort. “Fine, Dad. You want me to ‘respect the house’? Consider it done.” He grabs his shirt from the arm of the couch and pulls it on, deliberately slow, like he’s doing me a favor.

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