Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
The sound of Vanessa’s hangers sliding into my guest closet, one by one, claiming the quiet space I had paid to keep.
By Tuesday morning, the kitchen smelled of Vanessa’s lavender shampoo, a heavy floral scent that lingered long after she had finished her shower.
The kitchen counter was cluttered with sixty-two dollars of grocery delivery bags I had ordered the night before, still unpacked because Vanessa had occupied the counter since dawn.
She stood by the stove in her silk robe, holding a ceramic mug of my dark roast coffee.
“I like the blue mug,” she said, setting it down on the stained oak coffee table without a coaster.
The damp bottom of the mug left a dark, wet ring on the polished wood.
I picked up the mug and wiped the surface with the edge of my sleeve.
“We need to set some ground rules, Vanessa,” I said, keeping my voice flat.
“I work from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I need the living room quiet from nine to five.”
